Shorts!
by BananaNutCrunch
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Lots of FrUK, USUK, FACE, Cold War, Bad Touch and the Asian Invasion... with a side of everything else, of course.
1. Post its

**Short one (or maybe two)-shots, featuring anyone and everyone. Varying genres, pairings, quality and AUs. **

**In this one:**

**Characters: Arthur and Francis  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Fluff **

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><p>The way Arthur had proposed was funny.<p>

_(We're out of butter, Frog. Go get some, would you?)_

Francis had come home from a day at the restaurant. He was tired. That was normal. He'd stopped at the front door to fish his keys out of his pocket, only to have a flash of green catch his eye. That was not normal. He looked down and saw a post-it. It just said, 'Oi, you.'

_(You forgot again didn't you? Go get the butter today!)_

Odd. He'd opened the door, wondering why Arthur (who else had such lovely handwriting?) would have left it.

He had to stop for a moment and wonder if his eyes were playing tricks on him. His entire living room was covered in post-its.

_(Butter! I expect a fresh pat by the time I get home.)_

He'd plucked one off the wall. 'Let's get hitched,' it read. Francis looked up and plucked off another one. 'Hey you! Marry me.' And the next. 'Be my Frog forever?'

All of them were like that, or variations of the same message. Arthur had covered his walls with marriage proposals.

_(Where's the butter?)_

Francis had burst out laughing. There were even some stuck to the ceiling fan.

Arthur loved post-its. Francis wandered around the room, reading everything. How long had it taken? How many trees had Arthur killed? Horrible as it was, Francis couldn't bring himself to care.

It didn't take long to find Arthur hiding behind the sofa with an empty bag and his favourite pen.

"Yes," said Francis simply.

_(Butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter)_

They're married now. They live in a flat downtown with teal walls and mismatched furniture. Arthur goes to work in the mornings and Francis leaves to do the night shift in the evenings.

Sometimes they miss each other entirely, but it's not so bad because Arthur still loves post-its. Francis often finds them when he wakes up.

_(This is margarine, you silly Frog, not butter.)_

Sometimes he leaves them for Arthur too, where the other man can find them when he gets home from work. By the time Francis gets back Arthur may or may not be asleep. Francis only curls up into bed behind him.

_(Never mind, I suppose. It's better than nothing.)_

He still has each and every post-it Arthur proposed to him with. They're in a little black notebook so he won't wear them out from unfolding them to read so much.

_(We need bread, too.)_

Most of the time the messages are mundane things like what he needs to do, or whether or not there is a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.

If Francis is really lucky, he will wake up to a post-it stuck on his forehead instead of in some haphazardly-chosen part of the house. More often than not, these special post-its will say something short, but sweet. They aren't much, but they're more than enough.

Francis keeps these too.

_(Also, I love you. You drool while you sleep.)_


	2. Egg head

**In this one:**

**Characters: Kiku, Yao, Yong Soo  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Comfort**

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><p>The hospital isn't really the nicest place to be, but Kiku makes do. He doesn't complain. He doesn't complain much at all, really. It's just how he was raised.<p>

The bed's sort of hard, though. And, and, the food leaves something to be desired. Ew. Hospital food. Even Yong Soo's cooking is better than this. Which isn't to say it's really bad, because the boy does work in a restaurant and he's not completely useless. But when Yong Soo cooks without a recipe the ingredients tend to get a little weird. Kimchi and ice-cream. Apple curry. Peanut butter hotdogs. Although the last one hadn't been all that bad.

Which isn't the point. Focus. The bed, yes. No, wait. Not the bed. Cancer. That's the focus. Cancer. Yeah.

Chemo, really. He had a session last Thursday. He still feels pretty tired from it, although he's not complaining. His cells are mutating. Mutating and dividing uncontrollably and spreading everywhere they can although the doctors tried to cut them all away and the bed's really fucking hard, but Kiku's not complaining.

Radiation, or something. If he's lucky he'll turn into a mutant. Not a gross one either, although he's got Yong Soo's assurance that he'll be loved either way (even more, in fact). Preferably like one of the X-Men. Maybe Kiku could be Cyclops, except that he wouldn't make a very good Cyclops because he's bald and bald superheroes don't look very cool if you're tiny and oriental.

Oh, yeah. He's bald now, isn't he.

Yao and Soo are supposed to visit. That's nice of them, although Kiku doesn't really have the energy to entertain them like a good host. They celebrated Yao's last birthday in the hospital, with a little cake and everything. Soo's crazy cousin sent firecrackers but they were confiscated by the nurse before they even entered his room. The cake was nice, though.

There's a knock on the door. _Took you long enough,_ Kiku thinks, but he doesn't complain. He's only grateful that he's got company. It's getting a little lonely in this whitewashed room with antiseptic and death (there's life too, really, but the maternity ward is a long way away).

They come in. Yong Soo bounds in like he usually does and Yao follows serenely after. Kiku turns to smile at them like he usually does but then he notices something missing and the smile turns into a gasp.

He stares.

"You're bald."

It's more or a statement than an exclamation, because Kiku's never been prone to outbursts. Yong Soo, on the other hand, bounces into the seat beside Kiku's bed with enthusiasm. "Yep!" he says, running a hand over his shiny dome. Yong Soo is bald. He looks ridiculous.

"Why?" Kiku feels this sudden urge to slap him.

"My head was getting too hot. I can totally see why you did this, bro! It's way cool!"

Yao sighs and eases himself into the chair next to Yong Soo's. "He didn't choose to be bald," he says, but leaves it at that.

Yao's bald too, although he's hiding it under a yellow baseball cap. It's jarring. He used to have such lovely black hair tied up into a ponytail. Yong Soo, too, used to have very fashionable hair. It's gone, now.

"Why?" Kiku asks again.

Yao smiles at him very gently. "Because we're friends."

"And that's what friends do!" Yong Soo quips, leaning forward and pulling off Kiku's scull cap so he can rub his smooth bald head against Kiku's. "You don't have to be an egghead all alone. And when you finally punch cancer in the testicles, then we can all grow our hair out and get the same hairstyle and the white folk won't know which one of us is which!"

Kiku is stunned, and then he bursts out laughing, which is unusual for him. His best friends have shaved their heads for him (with no good reason, the silly bastards, nobody needs to go this far) and it's nice. It's really nice. Yao's hugging him and Yong Soo's making a lot of noise and he's got cancer and they're all bald, but it's still nice. For the first time in a very long time he is happy. He will spend his next session in chemotherapy thinking that _this isn't that bad_ and _at least they look as ridiculous as I do._

And oh, he's crying now. He's never done that before, at least not since he was a kid. But Yao's yelling at Soo now for making Kiku cry and that's funny, so Kiku laughs too. He's laughing and he's crying at the same time and it's all very strange, it's a jumbled-up mixture of emotions that's warped and distorted his pain into a sort of giddy numbness and it's really weird.

But he's not complaining. This is okay.


	3. Zombie

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred, Arthur  
>Universe: Freakshow AU<br>Genre: Hurt, general what-the-fuckery**

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><p>You can find God in a gunshot.<p>

Or something like that, anyway. Alfred doesn't remember where he's heard it before but it sounds fucking awesome. It also rings true, for him at least. Three years ago he tried to be a hero and rescue some lady from a mugger. Turned out the mugger was packing a .42 millimeter and long story short, Alfred died on the way to the hospital.

(He really did see God in that split-second before he was shot, though. Or he thinks he did. It could have been someone else. Probably Morgan Freeman.)

He'd had a nice funeral. Or he assumed it was nice. He hadn't really been invited, although it'd been for him in the first place.

He'd been buried. Not that many people had been around to pay their respects. The only people Alfred can think of who would've attended his funeral are his best friend and his father. He doesn't know what happened to Ivan, but he knows at least that Arthur is doing better than Alfred is.

That would've been the end of the story if the cosmos hadn't suddenly decided to play a cruel joke on Alfred. He'd woken up inside his coffin, trapped and helpless. He panicked. He scratched and clawed at the wood and screamed his throat raw, but nobody came to rescue him. He'd cried piteously before he realised that for some reason he hadn't run out of oxygen, and he began to try and work his way out.

It hadn't been easy pushing six feet of dirt off his along with the lid (when in the hell did he get so strong?), but he'd managed to kick and scratch his way out and haul himself out of his grave (he'd terrified some poor girl but oh well). His first thought as he surveyed his surroundings and the awful state of his suit was, _why did I just crawl out of my own grave? I clearly remember dying._

His second thought was, _fuck, I'm a zombie. _

He'd run home, avoiding the general public and trying to ignore the stares people were giving him as he lumbered past in a filthy suit (he didn't shuffle like the zombies in Hollywood, but his joints were stiff and he wasn't as nimble as he used to be). He'd run back to his house only to find it locked, and he didn't have his keys. He'd broken a window and found all of his stuff packed up neatly in little boxes. The furniture looked dusty.

He'd run upstairs to see what had become of his beloved bedroom. Burst in through the door, only to find his father sitting in Alfred's bed, clutching Alfred's favourite sweatshirt to his chest and staring at the posters on the wall.

Alfred had cleared his throat. "Dad?"

At least there was one good thing about having a basketcase of a father. Arthur, to his credit, hadn't shrieked, fainted or had a heart attack when he saw his dead son standing in front of him. He'd only stared, wide and watery-eyed, and made a soft gasping noise.

"Alfred," he'd whispered. And then started to cry.

(Christ, Alfred hadn't seen his old man cry since Al's mother had died. It wasn't nice. But then again, having to bury your son probably hadn't been a walk in the park either. At least not the nice kind of park. The kind of park dead people got buried in.)

It never even occurred to Arthur that he might be hallucinating. He'd only run back into his son's arms, thanking God almighty for giving the boy a second chance. He'd kissed him and clutched him close. He'd gone over details on how he'd keep the house in his name so that Alfred could keep living there, and how he'd send some money every week or so if Alfred wanted.

Alfred had refused the money. He didn't want to be anyone's charity case. Unfortunately, Arthur had to return to where he lived in England, because he still had a job there. Alfred hadn't wanted to move back there with him either. It wouldn't have been possible, anyway, what with Alfred being officially dead as far as the government was concerned. His passport and identification were null and void. He'd just have to keep a low-profile life in the States.

Neither Alfred nor Arthur had questioned Alfred's strange state of rebirth. They'd only been grateful. Alfred, especially, had been ecstatic at the prospect of a fresh start. As a bonus, although he wasn't as sprightly as he was used to, he was incredibly strong. At least Hollywood had been telling the truth about that.

Very soon, though, he'd started to realise that being dead wasn't exactly a bed of roses (or maybe it was, because roses were thorny fucks). No matter what Alfred did, he couldn't make himself look like anything other than a corpse (it's a terrible thing, looking in the mirror and remembering what you used to be, but only seeing what you are). His skin was grey, grey, grey, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. He couldn't do more than a few seconds of expression at a time. He stank, too. Not like rotting flesh, because Alfred never decomposed no matter how much time passed. He smelled like chemicals and embalming fluid. He'd gone as far as to try bathing in cologne, but it hadn't helped at all.

(He's used to it now.)

Alfred's lonely, too. He can't go out in public. People tend to sense that something's off about him. He could claim that he's only dressed up as a zombie (he's tried), but they _know_. They always know, when he gets up close. They get uncomfortable and try to move away from him. He tried to talk to a girl once. He hasn't really tried again since then. Ironically, he can't even go out on Halloween.

(Oh God, he's so _alone.)_

He wants to eat. He shouldn't because he's dead. When he hurts himself the wounds don't bleed. They don't heal, but they don't bleed. He doesn't need to eat. But he wants to, because food is one of the few things that makes him feel alive. He used to cook at home a little, but then the food ran out. He tried to get groceries a few times, but the cashiers are always put off by his presence. He knows this. It hurts. But still, he wants to eat. He's reduced to taking, except he was never a thief so all he can do is pick up what others don't want. He goes out at night, when nobody will see him, and he digs around in the trash to find something edible. He doesn't care if it's dirty. It's not going to kill him.

(His body can't digest it anyway. He always has to puke it up afterwards.)

He still has electricity in his house, thanks to Arthur, although Alfred would rather pay for it himself. But he can't, because he can't go near people. He can't get a job. He's broke.

Arthur doesn't know. He doesn't know about Alfred going through rubbish and locking himself up in his house in the daytime. He doesn't know how his sociable, outgoing son is slowly wasting away in a cocoon of his own making. He doesn't know because Alfred won't tell him. He wants his father not to worry. As far as Arthur knows, Alfred is fine.

But he isn't. He's dying. He's dying, but even death has betrayed him. The gates of Heaven have not opened for him and if his life(?) so far is anything to go by, they never will.

Hell is on Earth.

You can find God in a gunshot. But there's no peace in Death.


	4. The Dragon and the Prince

**In this one:**

**Characters: Francis, Arthur  
>Universe: Fairytale AU<br>Genre: Humour (or at least that's what I was aiming for OTL)**

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><p>Gallant and strong he was not, nor did he have a suit of armour to his name.<p>

He _was_, however, blonde and blue-eyed and handsome to a fault. And he was a prince, which people seemed to love. All in all it was a deadly combination, and one Francis could not help but exploit. People just flocked into his arms; men, women, even small children seemed to like him. He couldn't help it. He knew how to charm a crowd.

He had once, actually.

(Although it was really more in a literal sense and hadn't been very pleasant for either party. The villagers had shown up early one morning at his doorstep complete with pitchforks and flaming torches, demanding his head. Something about sleeping with somebody's wife had probably started the whole affair, but it had managed to escalate into an angry mob within the week. Francis had stood at his balcony with a very put-upon sigh, and with a flick of the wrist had transformed the angry mob of peasants into an angry mob of frogs which, while alarming, was not the most intimidating sight. It had not been his fault, really. What was he to do? They had even accused him of being a witch.

He _was_ a witch, but it was the principal of the thing, you understand.

His courts had been teeming with puzzled amphibians all the way till the next morning, until one poor creature had finally mustered up the courage to hop onto his balcony and give him a sheepish croak of apology. He had relented then, and had very graciously agreed to change them all back, as unpleasant as it would be. There were only so many frogs one could kiss before one began to tire of it.

Princely kisses, you see, work just as well on enchanted frogs as princess' ones.)

The matter had been wrapped up with an unspoken warning and a heavy dose of mint, but Francis's father had not been content to let the matter rest, blast the man. King Bonnefoy was convinced that his son would be up to no good in a matter of days, and had so decided that employment of a caretaker would be necessary to keep his only child out of trouble.

That was how Francis found himself under the scaly wing of an uptight, crusty old dragon from Brittania who went by the name of Arthur, in exchange for a part of the kingdom's treasury.

_(Arthur_. Of all the things for a dragon to be named.)

After his third week of "protection", Prince Bonnefoy was ready to go mad. Locked up in his drafty tower with nobody to talk to but a grumpy, green-eyed, dried-up lizard who sometimes took the form of an equally grumpy, green-eyed young man, who delighted in chasing away his suitors and saviours (he'd nearly roasted that poor handsome knight from the New World, the bastard). Arthur's company and looks left a lot to be desired.

(Or that's what Francis said, at least. He would not till his deathbed admit the existence of envy-coloured eyes so bright and cunning and powerful that they sometimes made his breath hitch in his throat and made him want to stare into them till he was ensnared in the dragon's spell forever.

But to admit to that sort of thing would be ridiculous. Francis was no fair maiden and would not act like one, no matter how agreeable a dragon's eyes may be. )

He swirled a glass of wine in his hand (one of the few luxuries he was still allowed) and regarded the man-shaped serpent in front of him. He had tried all manner of escape in the past, but the dragon was as crafty as the prince was seductive, and every single time had ended in failure. What could one man possibly do against a wyrm?

Arthur leaned against Francis's bedpost and stared out the window, ever-watchful for any sign of rescue. He disappeared sometimes in the middle of the night, Francis knew, to check on the hoarde in his lair. Dragons, or so Francis had read, were famously greedy and would jealously guard their treasure no matter who or what tried to challenge them. Arthur had to be the same. Perhaps Francis could make him an offer he couldn't refuse.

"Tell me about yourself," the prince said suddenly, shattering the comfortable silence and making Arthur blink at him. If it came down to a battle of trickery, perhaps Francis could win this time.

"About myself? Such as what, my history? I am nearly as old as Brittania itself, boy," came the raspy, growling reply. Francis smiled sweetly and leaned forward in his bed.

"No, I want to know about _you_. How do you pass the time? Where do you like to go? What do you _treasure_?"

The dragon in a man's skin smiled at this, all teeth and no humour. The firelight played on his features and made his eyes flash. "I treasure valuables, boy, like any other dragon does. Like the things your father gave me, for instance. He paid a pretty penny to keep you out of mischief."

Francis had a bit of trouble hiding the bristle of irritation at Arthur's jab (why did the man know inexplicably how to rile him up?), but he rallied magnificently, letting out a chuckle of mirth instead.

"Yes, but my father's money aside, what kind of valuables do you collect?" he purred. "Gold or jewels or beautiful artwork? Perhaps you like to collect things of antiquity. And I did have a tutor once who taught me that knowledge is valuable."

Arthur seemed taken aback at this. "I agree. Knowledge is a treasure in and of itself," he replied with mild surprise. "Half my collection is of old tomes forgotten by time. I didn't expect you to say such a thing, though. I imagined your head to be empty of everything but frivolity and silliness."

"I'll have you know I resent that," replied the prince loftily, shifting long limbs around. "Knowledge is indeed something I value highly. I have quite a bit of it myself."

Arthur laughed. "Do you really? Knowledge of what, I wonder? How to powder your face like a lady's?"

"No," replied Francis levelly, trying not to scowl. "Nothing like that, although dressing like a woman has served me well before. The knowledge I refer to is… oh, but perhaps you wouldn't understand." He smiled coyly and reclined, resting on one elbow and daring Arthur to move.

The dragon did just that, eyes sharpening in a way that was not entirely human as he leaned forward to follow Francis's movement. "Tell me," he commanded.

The prince smiled again. "Knowledge of, ah, how shall I put it? Of pleasure," he explained, setting his glass on the table with as much of a sultry sigh as he could manage.

Arthur tilted his head at this. "Pleasure?" he asked. The hunger had not yet left his eyes. Francis stretched one leg across the bed and let the other dangle off the edge.

"Pleasure," he said. "In the bedroom."

Arthur's bright green eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That does not sound like knowledge anyone would want," he said cautiously. Francis laughed at him.

"You are mistaken. It is extremely useful, this knowledge that I possess. You do not know what pleasure can do to a person. Yes, valuable knowledge indeed. Knowledge that I would be happy to impart if only there were anyone willing."

Arthur kept leaning forward, eyes open with rapt, animal-like attention. "_I _could be willing," he said slowly. "If there really is treasure to be had. I could be willing."

"I know you could," replied Francis sweetly, sitting up to bring his lips closer to Arthur's. "Oh, I would simply love to teach you. It's wonderful, this treasure of mine. I'd give it to you…but for a price."

"Not too high. Nothing too high," said the dragon, voice thick as though he were having some trouble hanging on to his humanity. Francis batted his eyes.

"Of course," he whispered soothingly into Arthur's ear. "Nothing too high. I ask for nothing but my freedom. What say you, dragon? Shall I give you my knowledge, my treasure, if you'd agree to set me free?" the last words were nothing more than a murmur against Arthur's cheek.

"Treasure," repeated the dragon, eyes glazed, hypnotized. Francis smiled. He had won.

* * *

><p>Two hours and three rounds later had the pair of them lying in bed, satiated and utterly exhausted. Arthur, the fire-breather, amused himself by blowing smoke rings into the air. Francis hummed and stretched languidly, tangling his legs with the dragon's. "I hope you're satisfied with what I've taught you," he said good-naturedly. Not that it had been much. Arthur had turned out to be far more knowledgeable than Francis had anticipated.<p>

"Very," replied Arthur without looking at him. "Don't get ahead of yourself, though. There's always room for improvement."

Francis chuckled softly. "I shall have plenty of time for that once you set me free." Images of liberty flashed across his mind, and he imagined once more the life of luxury he missed so much. He could almost taste the fresh-baked croissants.

Almost immediately, a hand with worryingly sharp fingernails shot out to grab him by the wrist.

"No. Mine," said Arthur calmly, still not looking away from his smoke rings. Francis paled, and then let out a weak laugh.

"Excuse me?"

"Mine," repeated the dragon, finally turning around to face him. The fire in the hearth was dying now, but the embers still reflected in his face, making his eyes look like pure, molten gold. The prince's heart nearly stopped in his chest as Arthur's grip tightened, and suddenly he realized how very much the creature in his bed really _wasn't_ a man.

Arthur smiled. "A dragon never lets go of its treasure."

"I've already given you your treasure," responded Francis evenly, trying to release himself from Arthur's grasp (alas, to no avail; the fellow's grip was like a vice). "New information, right? That was the deal. That was the treasure."

"I've decided I want a new treasure," said the dragon loftily, leaning in closer to Francis. "I've found something more valuable." He stared directly into Francis' face with the same possessive, slightly manic smile. Francis tried to back away. Arthur didn't budge.

"You please me. I've decided to keep you."

"No." It was more of a plea than a statement, and Francis desperately tried to remember if he'd ever learnt a spell that could take down a dragon or at least seriously injure something important. He came up empty.

"Yes," breathed Arthur, bringing Francis onto his back by pressing down with his body weight. "Mine." His head disappeared from sight and Francis felt a mouth attacking his neck, much to his chagrin. Suddenly he felt that his voice had shriveled up and died.

The mouth continued its way down his chest, making him squeak in a decidedly undignified manner, although he would deny this later. Once or twice he thought he heard a muffled "mine" spoken into his skin. Rational thought left him when he felt small claws dig into his back. Unthinkingly, he arched upwards into a waiting embrace as Arthur continued to mark him and cling to him.

A breathless laugh escaped Francis. Perhaps tempting a dragon had not been the best idea, in hindsight. A few short years of debauchery did not do much against a cunning, ruthless old lizard with an eye for shiny things. And now, as much as he'd hate to admit it, he would most definitely be kept out of trouble. All hell would break loose if Francis so much as _sneezed_ at an attractive man or woman while Arthur was around.

He'd never escape, to be honest. He'd belong to the dragon forever. And the King, that old fart, wouldn't do much to fix the situation either. Knowing Francis's luck, his father would bust a gut laughing once he found out what exactly had transpired.

If the Arthur ever let him out of the tower, of course. A dragon never lets go of its treasure, right?

Francis whimpered. "_Fuck."_

"Alright," said Arthur cheerfully.

* * *

><p><strong>I think I've lost all ability to be funny sobs.**


	5. Socks

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred, Matthew  
>Universe: Odd AU<br>Genre: Idk. Saddish, I guess. and more general what-the-fuckery.**

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><p>Feet are not nice things.<p>

It's sorta too bad they were made to be socks. Both of them were cut from the same cloth and all that. Or maybe not. Well they _were_, but all the same that's probably not what the saying means. But they really are made from the same cloth, you understand. Because they're socks. Striped ones. One is called Alfred and the other is called Matthew. Yes, they have names. Yes, that is normal.

Also, Arthur has really stinky feet. He's a nice guy and all, with millions of nice Oxfords. But not nice feet.

It's a good thing when they're washed. They're new and they've only been worn once, but they're washed at around six o'clock after a hard day's work. Thank God, says Alfred. Be nice, chides Matthew.

They go in the wash. It's fragrant and wet and they get dizzy very fast. Matthew cries and says it's like being stuck in a soapy hurricane. Alfred thinks it's like a theme park. They get separated from each other within five minutes. Alfred can't move against the current, so he calls out frantically but hears no answer. Matthew thinks he sees Alfred once or twice but his soft voice can't reach him, and they don't meet for more than two seconds before the whirlwind whisks them apart again.

It lasts for half an hour. The washing machine stops and Matthew feels nauseous. He's removed from the wash and hung up to dry. It's hot outside and the wind keeps blowing. Matthew fears he'll fall off his peg. He searches for his twin but the clothesline comes up empty. This isn't nice. Being a sock was supposed to be fun.

Arthur comes back outside later and takes the clothes in. They are neatly folded and all the other socks are rolled up in a ball. Matthew still can't find Alfred. Neither can Arthur.

"Damn," he says. "Francis, where's my other sock?"

"I don't know," his roommate replies.

"Oh." Arthur puts Matthew back down and sighs. "They were _new_." And he's already lost one. The other's useless, now.

Matthew is shoved into the back of the sock drawer. He feels lost and alone and there's still no sign of Alfred. He'll be stuck in the darkness until his twin returns. Arthur's feet aren't nice, but they're better than this. His only hope is that Alfred will come back soon and they will be a pair again. It's what they were made for.

Matthew waits.

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><p><strong>I don't even know anymore OTL But that aside, this one really was short! Anyway, I have exams and all, so that's why the updates are so sporadic OTL Pleaaaase review! It makes me happy, it really does :'D <strong>


	6. Vampire

**In this one:**

**Characters: Matthew  
>Universe: Another freaky AU<br>Genre: Passive-aggressive internal monologue, I guess. Heh. **

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><p>Some days, you can never get the smell of self-loathing out of your laundry.<p>

Story of Matthew's life. Afterlife. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.

"Cleanup on isle three," says the tinny voice on the intercom. Matthew mutters something under his breath that would make a sailor blush and picks up a mop. He heads to isle three.

Fucking Wal-Mart. Worst place for a person to have to work. Insofar as Matthew can be called a person, at least. He died two years ago. Not that anyone actually noticed. It takes some kind of talent to get bitten by some batshit albino vampire, bleed to death, come back to life and then have people pat you on the back and go, "what up, broski?" Nobody's commented on how his eyes have turned a nice deep red. Nobody asks why he avoids garlic like the plague. Nobody bothers with his aversion to sunlight other than to tell him he needs a tan.

He could kill them. He could totally do it. He'd just have to make someone create a death certificate for him (it's not cheating if you're already entitled) and then he could just go on a killing spree. It's what he wants to do every time some kid pukes or an old lady yells at him for not giving people "service with a smile".

He can't smile, stupid. You'd see his fucking fangs.

But he won't do it. Can't, really. He gets all weak-kneed and queasy when he even thinks about killing another person. No matter how much he wants to, it just won't happen.

So he's stuck working the night shift at Wal-Mart, surviving off raw chicken and the occasional trip to the blood bank. It's pathetic. He's read Dracula. He knows how these things are supposed to go. Where are the wild excursions? Where are the young women in see-through nighties? Where are the wings of darkness and mystical moonlit nights?

(Yeah, he can transform. Into a fucking _mouse_. He's been attacked with a broom like, twice.)

If he weren't such a pussy he'd have become a notorious creature of the night ages ago. Or maybe he should just grow a pair and walk out into the sunlight (and no, he won't sparkle like a thousand fucking crystals. He'll burn. Hard.). Death would probably be better than being a shitty vampire stuck in a dead-end job (at least he's not as bad as Francis, though. Full moon comes and bam! Shedding all over the place, no more sitting on the furniture for you). That's what he thinks to himself every minute of the night, but he's never acted on it.

The required clean-up turns out to be a bottle of ketchup that one of the customers has managed to upset. He sighs at the read splatter on the floor. It looks a little like blood. It'd be easier if Matt could just survive on ketchup.

He mops. Nobody comes close to him. It's nearing midnight and he doesn't think the American public is bored enough to come grocery shopping in the middle of the night.

He finishes mopping. The water in the bucket really looks bloody now, not that Matt's interested. It smells rank and he'll have to go empty out the bucket. Then, he gets to spend the rest of the night counting stocks like he's been doing every day for the past six hundred and seventy-seven days.

The bathroom's dark, so he switches on a light and winces at the neon glow, before remembering that he can see in that dark. He nears the drain hole and prepares to empty the bucket over it so he can get back to work.

A noise outside startles him.

He jumps and loses his grip on the bucket, sending it crashing to the floor. Dirty water sloshes and splashes at his shoes and soaks his jeans. Matthew swears again in several different languages. The noise outside stops.

Now he's curious. Quietly (and quiet for Matthew is fucking _silent_; he's always been stealthy but as a vampire he's a like a damn ninja) he approaches a cubicle. There's a window right above it and Matthew thinks that if he stands on the toilet and looks out, he might be able to see the source of the racket.

He does just that.

It's darker outside than he thought. The moon is full and its eerie, half-illuminating light shines down into the alley Matthew's looking into. He hears the shuffling start up again. There's a dumpster directly below him. He thinks there must be a stray rooting around in there or something. If it manages to rip open a garbage bag, it'll be hell for whoever has to pick it up the next day. Matthew sighs and hoists himself out a little bit so that his torso is leaning out the window and he can see what's going on.

"Oi!" he calls, meaning to scare whatever's rummaging in the trash. The figure (in the shadows, although Matthew can see it rather clearly) jumps and stiffens. Matthew looks closer and realises that this is a human, not an animal, and suddenly he feels bad. This could just be a homeless person trying to find food.

The man (he's in an old jacket and is even blonder than Matthew) slowly looks up. The moon illuminates his face and reflects off his glasses. He's handsome, and he doesn't look like he should be out on the streets. He's got blue, blue eyes and a sweet young face, but for some reason something seems a little… _off._ Matthew's breath catches when he realises what's wrong with it.

His skin is grey, like a corpse. It's got a translucent sheen to it that makes the man look two steps from death (whether it's two steps before death or after, Matthew can't tell). His eyes are pure but also glazed, and he seems to be missing some pieces (like a part of his ear, and the pinky finger on his left hand). His body is bandaged but the wounds are not fresh.

"Fuck," says Matthew, only because he's seen this look before. It speaks of death, to which Matt is no stranger. The mysterious man looks guiltily at him, but brothers in death can often tell one of their own and his dull eyes brighten for a second as he seems to realise that Matthew is not as alive as he appears.

Matthew stares at him and the man (corpse?) stares back. There are no words exchanged as the stranger drops the still-wrapped sandwich he's managed to pilfer from the trash. Matthew feels a wave of pity and then a wave of awe, if this person's managed to avoid human contact enough to be walking around in the streets without getting attacked with pitchforks.

The corpse-man watches him, and then his face stretches into a slow, skull-like grin.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Alfred."

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><p><strong>OHOHOHOHO. Bet y'all didn't see that coming! Or, maybe you did. Anyway, thanks a lot for all the reviews for the last chapter! Each and every one made me so happy. But, don't stop now! Please keep reviewing OTL I don't have a life outside of this at the moment :'D<strong>

**Thanks for reading! **


	7. Hitched

**In this one:**

**Characters: Gilbert, Elizabeta  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Some trees called and they want their sap back.**

* * *

><p>Gilbert wakes up one Tuesday late for work, but it's not a big deal, really. Sunlight's streaming through the window and he makes no move to get up. If he's gonna get chewed out by the boss anyways, he might as well enjoy his morning while he can.<p>

Eliza's next to him, naked as a jaybird with not a fig leaf in the way. The sheets have slipped of her completely, so Gil has a very pleasant view of her ass. It's a good ass. Deserves to be shared with the world, he feels. He gives it a good morning pat and stretches.

Then he stares at the ceiling. He and Elizabeta have been together for about four years now, ever since he managed to badger her into going out with him. She's a crazy bitch. A cool one, though. She's manlier than he is, and she could, at one point, beat him at arm-wrestling. And she can drink him under the table. And she cusses like a sailor. And she's not afraid of bugs.

And she's totally hot, even though she nags like a damn woman. He's grown used to it, actually. He's become incapable of waking up in the mornings without Eliza to splash cold water at him and tell him to _get up already, you lazy bastard_. But she's still sleeping at the moment. Which is probably why he's late to work. He sort of misses being jolted awake.

And then, Gilbert's eyes pop open as he comes to a realisation He hasn't set his alarm clock in years. He doesn't mind Eliza constantly putting her feet on him. He likes it when she decides she's too lazy to sit up on her own and drapes herself all over him. He looks forward to being body-slammed at odd hours of the morning. He even takes "you albino fag" as a term of endearment.

Which can only mean one thing.

He flings an arm out and smacks her on the back. "Lizzy!" he croaks, voice still hoarse from sleep. "Lizzy! Wake the fuck up already, I have something to tell you."

Eliza makes a noise like a hibernating bear and lifts her face from the pillow. Her hair is mussed and nothing short of a terrorist attack is going to get her eyes open all the way. She looks ridiculous, but for some reason Gilbert _still likes her. _

"What?" she snaps.

"I love you," he replies.

Elizabeta stares at him for a good ten seconds. Then she rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Gilbert smacks her on the bottom this time. "Don't go back to sleep, you lazy ass, I'm serious. I'm like, in love with you and shit. For serious."

She groans and rolls over. "Gil, why the fuck are you telling me this now? Can't this wait until morning?"

"It _is_ morning, dumbass" replies Gilbert stubbornly as she yawns. "And no, it can't wait. I've only just realised I'm totally in love with you. I wanna marry you and have a million babies and do husband-and-wife crap."

Eliza stares blearily at him. "We'd be terrible as a married couple."

"Yeah, we'll kill each other. It'll be awesome."

"You're crazy," she says and stretches.

"Is that a yes?" he asks.

"Go to sleep," she replies.

"I can't, I'm already late to work. How 'bout it, Liz? We'll get hitched and live in a house with a white picket fence and a dog. And then we'll get bored and have some kids and you'll become a huge hormonal bitch but I'll still wanna bone you and then you'll break my hand at the hospital with your Hulk-like strength when the kids pop out of you. And then we can give them stupid names for shits and giggles and leave them with Toni and Francis till they're sexually confused and mentally scarred and shit. And they'll grow up and we'll grow old and we'll argue a lot and I'll probably die first from liver failure or eating too many beans or something, but I'll hang around for a while till you croak and then we can hold hands and bugger off into the afterlife together. Sound good?"

Elizabeta blinks at him and god, she's really fucking pretty even though she looks like shit. "You think of all that just now?" she asks, and now she's serious, maybe a little intrigued. Amused, maybe.

Gilbert stares back and tries to look as open and honest as he can, because the last thing he needs is for her to think he's fucking around. "Sure," he says. "We can even make a few amendments, I can be flexible. We'll forgo the kids and get a turtle. That'll work, right?"

She doesn't answer. That doesn't sit well with Gil, so he presses closer and gives her a kiss on the lips. "Marry me?" he asks.

"You have morning breath," she says and rolls away.

He follows, dragging himself onto her and squishing her into the mattress. "Marry me," he says into her neck.

"I can't breathe," she replies, but makes no move to dislodge him.

"Marry me," he says a third time, lifting his head and staring at her.

She stares back. Eventually, she answers. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" he echoes as she wriggles out of his arms. She slips out of bed and for a second Gilbert's blinded because he's a little love-struck and she's a little perfect. "Maybe," she repeats and she turns, leaves to enter the bathroom. It's quiet for a while and then Gilbert hears the shower, thundering dull against the floor and disrupting the silence. Gilbert rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "Maybe," he says. And then he grins.

It's not a no.

* * *

><p><strong>MY EXAMS ARE OVERRRRR.<strong>

**Yeah, that's why I've been missing in action for so long hurr. Eleven years of schooling are now over! I'll never have to do any of those stupid subjects ever again. WHOO.**

**Yeah, anyway. Did you know that this is actually my first time ever writing Gilbert? He's only ever appeared in various cameos, and in Angels, Demons, Asians and Zombies, the only lines he ever got went along the lines of "ytrftghewjfvlaweifbkvbqre". So, this is actually the first time I've ever done a proper characterisation of him. What do you think of it? **

**Yeah, that's about it. I'll update soon! **

**And thanks, Zoe! :D I am going to spam you with bad writing until you beg for mercy.**

**(Friendship is like a beautiful, delicate flower, but I am a cactus and I will poke you until you accept me.)**


	8. Words

**In this one:**

**Characters: Arthur, Francis  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Not very funny humour and failed flirting**

* * *

><p>He's always had a way with words.<p>

It's to be expected, really. He is, after all, a direct descendant of the great Bill Shakespeare himself (through his darling mother's side, God rest her soul). His brothers are all smooth-talkers, and his mother could sell you your own shadow. His father mumbled, hummed and hawed through life, but luckily none of the boys took after him.

Arthur is special, however; his maudlin prose puts even the most illustrious of Casanovas to shame. He doesn't think much of it, having grown up in a family of wordsmiths. _Other people_, though, they are another story.

Francis, in particular (although he denies it) is like a teenage girl when it comes to listening to pretty words. Day and night he will pester Arthur to say something _tres sweet_, and he fishes for compliments like he runs on them.

Most of the time, Arthur doesn't mind obliging him. He will spout sweet nothings and watch Francis sigh happily like the silly, shallow, lovely man he is. More often than not Arthur will sneak in a discreet taunt that will either go completely unnoticed, or will be ignored in favour of more poetry.

Sometimes, though, Arthur is just not in top form. There are times when he cannot even think of the most basic of rhymes, turning him into one of the masses just like that; he is miserable all day because of it. He wakes up and feels tired and listless and doesn't think much because he just feels so _blargh._

Which is why, when Francis loops his arms around Arthur's waist after breakfast and whispers sweetly in his ear _to tell me something pretty in that awful language I love,_ Arthur draws a blank. He stares back at Francis, mug of coffee (it's that bad of a day) halfway to his lips.

"Talk to me, my dear," Francis prompts, taking Arthur's free hand in his own. "Tell me something nice, like you did yesterday." And the day before, and the day before _that._ "Say something sweet. Oh, tell me what my hair looks like!"

(And Gilbert calls_ Arthur_ the woman.)

Admittedly, he could have gone about it much better. He could have recited some nonsense about how Francis's soft blonde curls were reminiscent of the sun, or of fresh fields of wheat, or of molten gold in a smith's shop glowing like passion turned solid and making ethereal of the earthly. Instead, he takes a look at the fruit bowl and says the first thing that came to mind.

"It's like a banana."

(Well, that hadn't been the best choice of words.)

There is a long pause. "A banana," says Francis flatly.

"Uhm."

The arms withdraw sharply from around him and Arthur suddenly finds himself fixed with the coldest stare he's seen since his mother was around. He shivers involuntarily and tries to look sheepish. "I meant-"

"No, I don't think I want to hear what you meant," Francis cuts him off and turns abruptly. "I'm going upstairs for a while."

He walks out the door without a second glance and Arthur cringes, berating himself for saying something so utterly unromantic. Great-uncle Bill would be turning in his grave.

He sighs and sets his mug down, and, against his better judgement (which is telling him to leave the silly sod alone already), he trudges up the stairs to locate his beloved, so he can curl up in bed with him in unspoken apology (unspoken, because he's having one of _those days_ and he'll probably ruin it if he opens his mouth).

The sentiment is not altogether unappreciated by Francis, although the silent treatment remains for the rest of their Sunday. This is bad enough, but Arthur nearly feels his soul snap in half during dinner, when a plate is set before him bearing one lone, desolate looking morsel.

You guessed it, a banana.

"I get the point," he moans, head in his hands, staring forlornly at his "food". He looks up pleadingly at Francis, just in time to see a cold smirk of amusement as the other man turns away to get a helping of fillet mignon for _himself,_ the greedy bastard. "I don't think you do," is all he replies.

Arthur hangs his head in defeat and sighs, picking up his banana and peeling it resignedly. If Francis is feeling generous, he might get fed properly later. Until then, this yellow, entirely unsatisfying phallus will have to suffice.

"Here's to hoping the mysterious gift will hurry the fuck up and come back already," he sighs inwardly and takes a bite as Francis tucks in with every sign of enjoyment.

The sooner he gets back to normal, the better. He's got a lot of sweet-talking to do in the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>As you can see, it's glaringly obvious that I'm running out of ideas.<strong>

** Halp. Please, PLEASE give me prompts. Or I won't be able to write anything anymore ORZ**

**Do comment! I would really appreciate it if you did. I haven't gone and lost all my friends from my long absence, have I? D:**


	9. The Canadian

**In this one:**

**Characters: Al, Matt, Gilbert, Ivan (although which is which is up to you)  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Derp**

* * *

><p>"You know, there's a reason people sleep with the Canadian."<p>

Alfred started and turned around, unaware that he'd been caught staring at the cute blonde drinking alone at the other end of the bar. He turned to the bartender with a sheepish smile.

"He's Canadian?" he whispered back so the mysterious blonde wouldn't overhear. The bartender nodded and smiled, hair bouncing a little with the movement. He went through the motion of cleaning a beer mug, although with the rag he was using, he wasn't so much getting rid of the dirt as spreading it around more evenly. He seemed to notice this, and set the cloth down.

"He's popular around here. Most of the folks who come aren't around for the company, you know. But that boy, he comes here every night to drink by himself, and he goes home with a different person each time," he said in heavily accented English.

Alfred looked around. The pub was dingy and badly lit, and the furniture had probably seen better days. Still, it was full, although it was rather quiet. The people who came here seemed to be drinking to drown their sorrows, not to have a good time. It was sort of sad. There was a crowd, but they all looked lonely.

Alfred wouldn't know, though. He'd only stopped by to get out of the rain.

The beer tasted slightly acidic and the staff (which seemed to consist of two people) had leered at him as he arrived. He didn't really mind. Both the bouncer and the bartender looked a little crazy, but Alfred imagined they weren't much crazier than he was. They'd get along fine.

A hand clasped his shoulder, and someone flopped onto the barstool next to him before he could turn around. It was the bouncer. Speak of the devil.

"Feed me," he said to the bartender, who only shrugged and handed him a glass of something that could probably kill a horse. Alfred hid a smile behind the rim of his mug. The man called himself 'Security', but in a little place like this, his job likely entailed dragging people into taxis so they wouldn't kill themselves driving. The patrons didn't look like they would start a fight.

The bouncer took a swig and looked up, wiping a drop of alcohol from his lips. "What were you talking about?" he asked the barkeep.

Alfred tried to place his accent. Both the employees sounded European, maybe Russian or German, but he couldn't tell which. It didn't help that they both had silvery-blonde hair and pale skin.

The bartender gestured discreetly to the bespectacled blonde at the other end of the bar. The bouncer grinned. "Oh, _him._ That one's a good lay. The mornings after are always the best."

"Whaddya mean?" asked Alfred, swirling his drink around a little. "He give awesome morning quickies or something?"

"Those are nice too, but the reason he's so popular is because of how he pampers you afterwards."

"It isn't really pampering. I think the lucky bastard really lives like that every day," interrupted the bartender.

Alfred smiled uncertainly. "I don't get it."

The bouncer took another gulp and turned to him. "Breakfast. Just ask him to make you breakfast."

"Seriously?" replied Alfred incredulously. "It ain't like a guy can't feed himself, you know. Breakfast can't be the cause of wanting to sleep with somebody."

"Then you've obviously never slept with a Canadian," supplied the bartender matter-of-factly.

Alfred grinned. "And I take it the two of you have?"

Two pairs of eyes, one red and one violet, turned to look at him. Both men only grinned.

Alfred chuckled good-naturedly. "Okay, I get it. The guy gets around. I'll admit, he's pretty damn cute. What's he doing wasting his time in a dump like this, though? He seems like he should be curled up at home with a book or something. No offense about this being a dump, by the way," he added hastily. The bouncer waved him off.

"He probably keeps coming because there are easy pickings for him. And it's worth it, I tell you. You won't understand the extent of his Mornings After till you try them for yourself."

"Well maybe I will," countered Alfred, finishing off his beer.

"Good idea. Go talk to him."

The bouncer and the barkeep turned away. Alfred sneered at their backs before standing up and making his way across the pub to join the only other man sitting at the bar.

He ran a hand through his hair, doing his best to look nonchalant. With a deep breath and mental fistbump, he put on his most winning smile.

"Hey," he said smoothly, sliding into the seat next to the Canadian. The man didn't respond.

Alfred's smile faltered for a second. "Hi," he tried again, leaning against the bar and tilting his head into the Canadian's line of vision. The other man jumped and looked up, blinking rapidly. Alfred nearly laughed at him.

"Oh! Hello," said the Canadian. "I've never seen you here before."

Alfred's smile resurfaced. "Yeah, my bike broke down and I came in here to get out of the rain for a while. I figured I'd wait for it to stop pouring before I went back out to try and fix it up."

"Oh, that's too bad," the Canadian frowned in reply. "I hope it won't be too difficult to fix."

Al shrugged. "Nah, that piece of junk does that all the time. I'm thinking, once I've got enough cash, I'll ditch the bike and get a new one. Like a Ducati or a Harley or something. Cool, huh?"

The Canadian chuckled. "Sure, it's cool. I'd never have the guts to ride a motorcycle, though. I get freaked out just driving a car. But I sort of wish I did. Have a bike, I mean."

"So why don't ya just get one?" Alfred grinned, inclining his head a little. The Canadian laughed quietly. It sounded sweet.

"Are you kidding? I'd never survive. I'd probably do something lame like fall off and break my neck before I'd even started, and then there'd be nobody to feed the rat. Not that I have a rat problem or anything," he quickly clarified, seeing Alfred's horrified expression. "I meant my pet rat. My cousin gave him to me when I was a kid. He's white. The rat, I mean. Although my cousin is white too."

"Yeah? What's his name?" asked Alfred.

"Francis."

"You have a white rat named Francis?"

"No, I have a white cousin named Francis. The rat doesn't have a name. Or he does, I guess, I must have given him one once. I can't really remember what it was, though."

"You sure sound like a sucky owner."

The Canadian smiled and shrugged. "In my defense, he likes to act like I don't exist. I'd probably remember his name if he paid more attention to me. I think I named him Hakunamatata or something."

"That's a weird name," Alfred grinned. "Hey, if I told you my name, you think you'd remember it?"

Alfred could have sworn the Canadian batted his eyelashes coyly, but then again he didn't seem like the type. "I can't guarantee anything," the man said. "I may or may not have had too many drinks. Those two like to feed me cocktails of death just because one's German and one's Russian and they can hold their liquor like Hoover Dam." He gestured to the pub's workers, who waved. "At this point I can barely remember my own name. Also I'm talking way too much."

"Yeah, you're kinda rambling. Don't stop on my account, though. I kinda like it. And I'm Alfred, by the way, but you can just call me Al. Everyone does."

The Canadian smiled sweetly at him. "I'm probably Matthew."

Alfred grinned. "Well, Probably Matthew, it's nice to meet you."

* * *

><p><strong>Bwah bwah bwah bwah.<strong>

**You gaaaaiz, thanks so much for reviewing for the last chapter! Y'all really know how to make a derp feel special :') More suggestions! More comments! Let's talk :D **

**I want to write hetalia superhero!fic :U**


	10. Stalker

**In this one:**

**Characters: Antonio, Romano, Feliciano  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Derp**

* * *

><p>There he was, the most adorable thing on the planet. Feliciano Vargas, host of <em>Feli's Home Cooking,<em> one of the most popular shows on TV at the moment. Not only were his recipes fantastic, Feliciano's personality was just so likeable and endearing that people were hooked immediately. Antonio loved him.

No, really. He was _in love_ with that boy.

And there he was, waiting in his beat-up little Irizar, with rope, duct tape and a bottle of chloroform in the seat beside him. He was waiting outside the recording studio. It had been difficult, _very_ difficult, to find out Feliciano's schedule, but Antonio had spent a pretty penny to buy information from that albino boom-mike kid. He knew that Feliciano would be coming out to the parking lot in a bit (and ride home on a cute Vespa. Antonio just wanted to smother him with affection).

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as Feli finally made his way out the door. There he was with his nice brown hair and his stylish clothes and that cute little cowlick sticking out of his head. Antonio could almost hear himself hyperventilating as his love drew closer. And he was alone, unguarded. That would just make things so much easier.

Feli walked up to a green Vespa (odd, hadn't it been blue?) and started fiddling around with the keys. Antonio took the distraction as an opportunity to pull up slowly, stopping a few feet away. He snatched the chloroform and a rag out of the passenger seat and opened the door, walking out on tip-toes and checking to see that nobody was around.

Oooh, he was _good_. Got right behind this adorable Italian without the other even noticing. His arms slowly snaked around Feli and he clamped the now-soaked rag to his mouth and nose. Feli struggled a bit (_how I wish you wouldn't, my dear, I only want to love you after all) _and then went limp in his arms. Antonio picked him up with a happy sigh. The body was put in the back seat, lying down so he'd be comfortable.

He started up the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

* * *

><p>Romano woke up with a splitting headache. Everything was groggy and unfocused for him, which was a lot like waking up after being drunk. He wanted to swear but he thought that if he made any noise, his head might explode. Still, he never remembered going out to drink or anything. Something fishy was definitely going down and Romano didn't like it.<p>

Slowly, he raised his head.

He seemed to be in an unfamiliar house. He was tied down, too, to an old (but comfy) armchair. He struggled weakly for a minute before giving up. Evidently, he had been kidnapped.

Minutes went by and Romano's head eventually began to clear. He mustered up the strength to holler. "Ey!" he yelled (his voice wasn't as intimidating as he usually tried to make it).

He heard shuffling noises from behind him. A (handsome) head popped into his vision with a big, cheerful, slightly unsettling grin.

"Hello!" chirped the mysterious man. Romano was immediately annoyed.

"What the fuck is going on? Who are you? Let me go, asshole, before I call the cops!"

The strange man (presumably Romano's kidnapper) seemed taken aback, which was actually fucking stupid because really, did he expect a warm welcome? "My name is Antonio," he said uncertainly.

"Okay, hi, Antonio, let me the fuck go so I can shove my foot up your ass."

Antonio blanched, and then smiled shakily. "Wow, you've got quite a mouth on you, huh? I'm sorry, I can see why you must be upset, but don't worry! I won't hurt you, I promise."

"_I'm_ going to hurt you once I get out of these damn ropes," hissed Romano, wriggling around. It didn't do much good, and made his wrists chafe, so he stopped. Outwardly, he was scowling, but his heart was doing a fucking samba inside his ribcage.

Antonio reached out to him. "You're so cute. I really like you, you know. I'm sorry for stealing you, but I didn't know how else to keep you with me!" He stroked Romano's hair away from his face.

"Excuse me, what the fuck are you doing?" Romano demanded, voice cracking at the end from fear and severe discomfort. Antonio shushed him and patted him on the hand.

"I'll take good care of you, I promise. We'll have lots of fun together! Don't you worry about a thing, Feli, you'll grow to love me pretty soon, I guarantee it."

Romano stared at him, bug-eyed. "Feli? You were trying to kidnap Feli? What the fuck! You've got the wrong person, you dumbass!"

Antonio blinked innocently. "What are you talking about?"

"Feliciano is my brother!" Romano exploded. "I'm not him! Why the hell did you take _me_? Why were you even trying to kidnap my brother, you freak? Are you some sort or rapist?"

"I'm not a rapist!" cried Antonio, hurt. "I'm just a big fan of yours, Feli. I like your cooking show a lot. I just wanted you to myself. I'm sorry, I know it was bad of me but I just couldn't help myself."

Romano gaped him, horrified. "You're a psychopath. You're a, you're a _manchild_. That's really fucking creepy, and for the last time I'm not fucking Feliciano!"

Antonio tilted his head, smiling. "I don't really believe you. I think you're lying because you want to trick me into letting you go. But you won't fool me! We'll have lots of fun together, Feli."

"I give up, you're mentally challenged," said Romano flatly. "Stop calling me Feli."

"Okay, Feli," replied Antonio sweetly. Romano sighed.

* * *

><p>It had been six days. Romano wasn't stuck in the armchair anymore, but he hadn't been allowed to leave the house. He didn't feel too badly about it, actually. He was being fed pretty well, even if he was sort of sick of paella. That crazy Antonio fuck kept trying to lure him into conversation, but Romano kept his answers short and sarcastic. Antonio didn't seem to mind. He remained almost maniacally sweet, even after Romano had pulled a McGyver and tried to escape by tying some sheets together and jumping out the window. Unfortunately, he'd misjudged exactly where the fuck he was, and had spent the better part of an hour wandering around until Antonio had pulled up in his (piece of shit) car and told him that it was <em>time to go home, <em>_cariño. _And then he'd made dinner for them both with a cheerful smile and a slightly manic light in his eye, and told Romano not to do that again. And Romano had listened, because Antonio could really fucking disturbing when he just… smiled. Without blinking. For minutes at a time.

"If it's a ransom you're after, you're out of luck," Romano had remark casually once. "You got the wrong twin. Gramps won't pay shit for me."

Antonio had paused in doing the laundry, and smiled. "_I_ like you. All the money in the world couldn't show how much I like you."

Romano had sighed. "I told you, I'm not Feliciano."

Antonio provided for Romano, but didn't allow for any communication with the outside world. No phones, no going outside, no computer, no talking to the mailman, no talking to anyone. Romano was ready to go crazy.

"For the love of God, at least let me watch TV," he said at the end of the sixth day. Antonio shrugged.

"I suppose it can't hurt," he said kindly, and turned it on. Romano flopped onto the couch, attentive immediately.

Of course, it had to be the news. There was a pretty telecaster talking about a kidnapping that had happened six days prior.

_"…local TV star has been suffering for a while, after the mysterious disappearance of his brother a few days ago. Police suspect a kidnapping, and there have been unconfirmed sightings of a red car that was in Romano Vargas's last seen location around the time of the disappearance."_

Romano snorted. "Took them fucking long enough." He risked a glance at Antonio, to see his reaction. "And I told you I'm not fucking Feliciano. You got the wrong guy."

Antonio had a spoon of ice-cream halfway to his lips. His mouth was still open. He was doing that not-blinky thing again. "You're not Feli,' he said flatly.

"No shit. That's what I've been telling you for a week."

Antonio set his spoon down. "You… you really weren't kidding. You're not Feliciano."

Romano laughed hollowly. "Been hearing that all my life. I'm not the one you want, okay? I'm just 'the brother'."

Antonio said nothing. He was still watching the news report, a look of intense concentration on his face.

"Don't hurt yourself," Romano offered.

"I took the wrong person," Antonio said thoughtfully.

"You sure did, asshole. So when are you gonna let me go?"

Antonio turned like he'd just noticed Romano was still there. He raised his eyebrows. "Let you go? Why would I do that?"

Romano stared at Antonio like he was an idiot, which he was. "Because you got the wrong person? So you should let me go. Unless you intend to kill me so I won't talk," he said, face losing some colour. "Please don't kill me, I won't talk. I won't tell anyone what a lunatic you are."

Antonio chuckled. "I'm not going to kill you! I told you, I like you. Remember?"

"I'm not Feliciano!" Romano exploded. "What part of that don't you get?"

"I know you're not Feliciano," replied Antonio innocently.

"Then why are you not giving me back?"

Antonio smiled at him unblinkingly, and then reached forward to place his hand over Romano's own. "Romano, Romano," he said soothingly. "You don't get it. I got the wrong twin, but it turned out to be a great mistake! I like you. I _really like_ you."

Romano shrank back into his seat. "Are you fucking kidding me? After all that, you finally figure out you have the wrong damn guy, and I'm still stuck here?"

Antonio laughed. "I'm sorry," he said sweetly and pulled Romano closer into a hug. "Don't struggle, you're tickling me. You don't have to look so scared, Romano! I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy. I don't have much money, but if you need anything, you just say it and it's done. We'll live together happily ever after and everything."

Romano shuddered. Antonio sighed happily. "Oh, amorcito. You're _never_ getting out."

* * *

><p><strong>I prefer the name Romano to Lovino, so I'm just using that. Even though they're like, real people. Yeah. ORZ<strong>

**I haven't updated in a really long time. I only just got my laptop hooked up to the internet! It's not my fault! I'm a beautiful butterfly that can't be tamed!**

**I'm sorry.**

**Please review! I'd really appreciate it. Have a nice day y'all :D **


	11. Eau de Failure

**In this one:**

**Characters: Arthur, Franny  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: I'm sorry.**

* * *

><p>It's a little bizarre that Francis can use orange-scented shampoo and still be sexy.<p>

Arthur wonders if it's because it makes him smell edible. Arthur likes oranges, therefore, logically, if Francis were to smell like an orange then Arthur should be attracted to him. He _is, _actually. He has a habit of taking deep, slow breaths whenever he has his head on Francis's shoulder (not that he's really _smelling_ the man, because that's just creepy).

Arthur decides to try it.

Francis likes berries, so Arthur goes to the local pharmacy and buys a bottle of their strawberry-scented shower gel (he gets an odd look, but he shrugs and says it's for his sister. Which is funny because he comes from a family of five boys).

He uses it the next day. It's stronger than he'd expected, but in a nice way. He steps out of the shower feeling like a fruit, in more ways than one.

Curiously, he goes up to Francis and holds his arms out for a hug. Francis raises an eyebrow but complies. They stand there awkwardly for a minute before Francis tells Arthur that he smells like a scented candle.

Arthur sighs. Francis doesn't find the scent appetizing.

But Alfred bites him later that day.

Arthur ends up giving the soap to Elizabeta.

* * *

><p><strong>I am sorry ORZ<strong>

**Apparently PIPA and SOPA have been abandoned. Celebrate all the things!**

**How strange, FF is telling me my country is the UK. That's not true! I just happen to be here! D:**

**Please review, have a good week gaiz.**


	12. The Deathless Man

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Why do I even bother anymore?**

* * *

><p>"…unidentified male, early thirties. Tagged as John Doe #82, corpse located off twenty-third street. Cause of death: two bullet wounds to the back of the head, probably from a .42 millimeter. Two clean entry wounds, no exit wounds. Bullets still partially lodged in cranium. Minimal shattering indicative that rounds were fired at point-blank range. Shouldn't be too difficult to remove."<p>

Alfred set the voice recorder down. It was still on, so he could continue the commentary.

The corpse on the table wasn't very interesting, professionally speaking. Getting shot in this part of the city wasn't a big deal. Thugs, thieves, pimps, druggies, you name it, he'd seen it. Alfred's idea of an interesting day involved someone actually dying of old age. Nobody lived for very long here.

From a purely medical (and aesthetic) standpoint, though, John Doe #82 was a bit of an anomaly. "Suffered from severe albinism during life," said Alfred to the recorder on the table. "Grooves in both humeri show wear from prolonged muscle strain. Scars everywhere. Healed, but they must've been pretty gory when inflicted."

He ran a gloved hand down John Doe's side. He could feel the ribs. John Doe was skinny and pale, a little like he'd been addicted to some sort of dangerous drug, but he had a wiry strength to him all the same. Ropy muscles must have been obvious back when John was still alive, even if they hadn't been particularly pretty. His hands were scratched and calloused, like they'd been used to a lifetime of work. Long, crooked nose, broken several times; right side of the chest sunken in a little as though a rib had been broken and then set wrong. John looked like a man who was better off dead.

"And I'm guessing you were some sort of gang grunt," muttered Alfred to himself, even though it didn't matter. His job was to perform an autopsy, not try to figure out this man's past. The cause of death was pretty fucking obvious, the rest was just protocol; cutting this guy up to see what was inside, and then sewing him back up and sending him to the churchyard to be buried alongside all the other nobodies.

"Performing Y-incision. Beginning at left clavicle."

He held his scalpel almost carelessly, because he had no reason not to. Nobody was going to claim the body. John had no ID, no money, not even a driver's license. "Poor bastard," Alfred thought, but didn't bother saying it aloud. He punctured the skin.

The corpse yawned.

Alfred screamed bloody murder and threw himself backwards, knocking over the table holding his voice recorder. He fell on his ass and nearly impaled himself on his own scalpel. "Jesus Mary Joseph _whatthefuck-"_ he cried shrilly at the blinking corpse who seemed more amused than dead.

Alfred pointed. "Oh my God!"

The man on the table snorted. "No, just me."

"But you're dead!"

"Obviously not." The corpse-thing shifted around a little, and started to sit up with a groan. "I'd like some water, if you don't mind."

"I don't have any water, 76% of my daily fluid intake comes from apple juice," replied Alfred, face pale. "What are you doing? Don't get up! You've been shot in the back of the head, you crazy bastard, we have to get you to the ER!"

The man sitting on the table waved him off, and started fiddling with the wounds in the back of his head. Alfred watched, slack jawed. He'd been _this close_ to cutting a man open when he hadn't even been dead, and here the guy was calmly trying to pry two pieces of lead out of his skull.

"Wait, stop!" Alfred cried, finally getting up and grabbing the man's arms (which, in hindsight, was probably not the best way to handle a man who'd recently been deceased). "Don't pull those out! For all we know, they could be what's keeping you alive. If you pull them out now, all your brains will come oozing out of your head like soup!"

The undead man stared at Alfred as though _he_ was the crazy one. "My brains are fine," he said.

"They're not!" replied Alfred desperately. "Let me call a doctor!"

"I told you, you don't need to. I'm alright. Where are my pants?"

"Why aren't you listening?" asked Alfred a little hysterically. "Don't get up!"

"I'm getting up."

"Don't!"

"Stop grabbing my arm."

"Come back! Stay down!" Alfred sobbed. "You're going to die again and it'll be all my fault! Let me help you, John, you don't deserve to die twice!"

"Who's John?"

"I don't know," said Alfred tearfully, and then he sat on the operating table.

The recently reanimated man sighed. "Call me Gil. Stop crying. You're pathetic, you're a grown man. I'll be fine, I tell you. I can't die."

"What the fuck do you mean, you can't die?" Alfred demanded, standing up only to sit back down again. "You're _going_ to die. Stop being so stubborn."

"I can't die," repeated Gil. "It's sort of complicated. This is the third time this week I've been shot in some vital region, and I'm just fine."

"Who's been shooting at you three times a week?"

"Doesn't matter," Gil said dismissively. "It doesn't matter, because I come out fine anyway."

"Who shot you?"

"Some guy. No big deal"

"I think it _is_ a big deal!" wailed Alfred in return. "You were murdered!"

"But I'm not dead."

Alfred put his head in his hands. "I may have had too much to drink."

"Don't worry yourself about it," said Gil, not unkindly. "I'll be fine. Just dandy. Right as fucking roses, you'll see."

Alfred's head snapped up. "But why?" he wrung his hands. "Why aren't you dead? Why can't you die? I saw those bullets! They should've killed you twice. How did you survive? Why can't you die? Let me get you to the ER!"

Gil smiled mysteriously. "You wouldn't understand if I explained it to you. Let's just say, I try to avoid death."

"That doesn't make any sense! You_ just_ died!"

"Okay. Well, the thing is, I sort of made a deal with someone. I'm not _allowed_ to die."

"Who the fuck banned you from death? Are you friends with God, or something?"

"Something like that," shrugged Gil. "Wipe your nose."

"My nose is fine," replied Alfred obstinately. "Sit down and shut up or your brain will leak out. We have to keep the bullets in there, or you really will die."

"_You _shut up. These bullets are fucking itchy. Take them out."

"No!" Alfred cried. His face went from pale to red. "What the hell is wrong with you? Can't you see some sort of miracle's just happened? Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Because it's no big deal," replied Gil nonchalantly. "Where are my pants?" He started looking around the room. Alfred stood up, grabbed him by the arms and tried to back him back onto the table. Gil shook him off.

"What is wrong with you? I already told you I can't die, didn't I?"

"I don't believe you. Nobody's immune from death. Just what the hell makes you so special?"

"I made a deal with a blonde guy," replied Gil dryly. "Your palms are sweaty, get off."

"I can't just let you die, you lunatic. You're pissing me off. Stop being an ass and let me get a medic."

Gil huffed. "Alright. Okay. You know what? I'm going to prove it."

"Prove what?"

"That I can't die. Take that pointy knife thing and stab me."

"Are you insane?"

"No, for God's sake, just do it. I'll be fine, I promise." Gil picked up Alfred's abandoned scalpel from the floor, and handed it to him. "There. Aim for the heart"

"You're crazy. You're obviously in some sort of shock," Alfred tried to back away, but Gil held fast. "What are you doing? Let me go! Help! I'm being attacked by a dead man! I'm afraid of zombies!"

"Stop struggling," Gil said between his teeth. Naturally, Alfred struggled harder. He pushed frantically, and stepped into a spilt puddle of saline solution. He slipped. Gil came with him.

Alfred landed on his back, hitting his head hard against the tile. His vision was swimming. Having Gil on his chest made it difficult to breath. He shoved the other man off, gasping.

"Was that so hard?" a voice rasped at him. Alfred turned.

The scalpel was sticking out of Gil's stomach.

* * *

><p>Alfred shrieked and lunged forward, yanking it out instinctively. Gil gasped.<p>

"Fucking crap on a cracker, that hurt, you moron!" he wheezed. "Nice job, now I'm going to bleed even more."

Alfred wailed. "Shit! I forgot, you're not supposed to pull the blade out, oh my God, what should I do? Should I stick it back in?"

"I will break your neck," choked Gil. Alfred gathered him up in his arms. Gil was even lighter than he looked. "Now I'm really taking you to the ER," he said.

Gil shook his head, eyes slipping shut. "Nah. I'll be fine."

Alfred struggled to the door. "You hang in there, Gilly. Don't you die on me." Gil didn't answer.

Alfred looked down. Gil wasn't breathing.

Alfred swore and set him on the floor, pulling off his scrubs and trying, too late, to plug the wound. It wasn't bleeding anymore, which was a bad sign. Dead bodies didn't bleed.

"CPR, CPR," Alfred chanted to himself. He placed both hands on Gil's chest and pumped repeatedly. "Come on, come on!"

It didn't work. Gil didn't start breathing again. Alfred fell backwards, onto his ass. He put his head in his hands and started to cry.

* * *

><p>This was it. He'd witnessed a miracle; a man who should, by all means, be dead, had woken up and been well enough to walk. And then he, Alfred F. Jones, had killed him. Sure, it had been an accident, but was that what the cops were going to think?<p>

No, no. Alfred took a rattling breath and tried to think rationally. This man, this Gil, was already supposed to have been dead, right? So if he happened to wake up, and then died again, it didn't make much of a difference. Alfred didn't have to tell anyone. He wouldn't get in trouble.

What if there were security cameras in the room? They'd know everything. They'd know Alfred had killed him. But then, they'd also know it was an accident, right? They couldn't act like it was intentional. Alfred might not have to go to jail after all.

But he'd still have to live with the knowledge that he'd killed another man. He'd seen something fantastic, and then he'd gone and ruined it by being a clumsy fool. He'd taken away a life. He'd have to live with that forever.

How long had he been sitting here? Gil's body was probably cold. Alfred wanted to light a cigarette but he really didn't want to look up and have to see Gil's empty, glassy-eyed stare. He couldn't do it.

Alfred sobbed.

"I thought I told you to stop doing that."

Alfred stilled immediately. Slowly, he looked up. Gilbert was wearing pants. He was also standing up and trying to rub dried blood off his stomach, but that was secondary. The important thing was, Gilbert was wearing pants.

"No, the important thing is, I'm alive. Just like I said I would be."

Alfred gaped. "But…how?"

"I told you." Gilbert slipped his shirt on. "I don't do death. Don't worry about it."

Alfred watched Gil potter about the room, looking for the rest of his things, without saying a word.

"I don't understand," he said in a very small voice. Gil paused, and then patted him on the head consolingly.

"Not many do. Relax, kid. Take the day off. Get a beer."

Alfred sniffled.

Gil rummaged around in his pockets, and then held out a hand. "Here," he said. "Souvenir."

Alfred hesitantly reached out to accept the offering. He opened his palm. Gil dropped two twisted, darkened bits of metal into his hand.

Bullets.

"Been bothering me for a while now," Gil grinned. "Have fun with them. Tell your friends you saw a ghost."

"W-wait!" Alfred cried, scrambling to stand up. "Are you really immortal? You have to tell me how you did it. Do you understand the impact this could make on modern medicine? You have the cure to _everything!"_

Gil paused, considered it, and then shook his head. "I'm not sure it's worth it."

"That's not really for you to decide," Alfred began, but Gil was already halfway out the door. "Come back!" he said, and followed. "I'm not done with you-"

He stepped out the door. The corridor was empty.

* * *

><p>"And that'shhh what happened," Alfred concluded, beer sloshing around in his glass. Most of the others at the bar (a Turk, some Cuban, a guy with big eyebrows and a jar of peanuts) had stopped listening to him by now. The alcohol had calmed Alfred's nerves a little. He wasn't shaking anymore. On the downside, he was obviously drunk.<p>

Matthew hadn't believed him. "You scare yourself over everything," he'd said. "And you're tipsy. Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?"

Alfred had sworn up and down that he was telling the truth, but that hadn't stopped his brother from wandering off in the middle of the story to play with the foosball table.

Only one other person was listening to Alfred, and even she didn't seem interested. She was some leggy blonde thing who wore too much black and didn't smile much. Alfred stared at her for a second like he'd just noticed her. She stared back.

"You don't sheem impresshed," he noted. "I know you dun believes me, nobody does because they is bastards. But it's true. I'm serious as a gas attack."

The girl snorted and swirled her drink. She only had water. Alfred turned his back on her, harrumphing.

"Fine. Be that way. Imma find my brother Matt, he's my brother, he's better'n you even though he ran away." He stood, unsteadily, and ambled off calling Matt's name loudly.

The girl at the bar watched him impassively. "You get all sorts, here," said the bartender to her nonchalantly, and then he left to pry one of the patrons off the jukebox.

The girl finished her water and set it on the counter, and then rummaged around for an old-looking gold coin. She set that on the table and stood, ruffling her skirts. And then she smiled.

"Found you."

* * *

><p><strong>Yes. The peanuts stopped listening. You know you're boring when the peanuts ignore you because peanuts are usually very obliging srsface**

**I ordered a set of Iron Man headphones HUEHEUHEUHEUEHUE. I am happy. **

**Also, super long story to make up for the last one. Yus.**

**Thanks, Zoe. And thanks for reviewing, guys! Don't stop ahaha. Happy February (Y)(Y)**


	13. Congress Was Right

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred, Arthur  
>Universe: Doesn't really matter either way<br>Genre: Vegetable**

* * *

><p>"Eat your vegetables, Alfred."<p>

"Fries are vegetables."

"They most certainly are not."

"Sure they are. They're made from potatoes. Potatoes are a vegetable."

"They're a root, and while roots are technically part of the vegetable family they're mostly starch and aren't all that great for you. Besides, I doubt those processed, salty things have ever even _seen_ a potato."

"Low blow, man. 'Sides, this ain't Mickey Dees. It's a real restaurant. Owned by an English guy, just so you know."

"Really? How nice. In that case I'll grant they're probably real chips, but they're still deep-fried and they're not good for you. Your food comes with a salad, now eat it."

"No way. It tastes rank."

"How rude! They can't taste _that_ bad, they're just vegetables."

"They taste like cardboard. And I notice you haven't taken a bite of yours, either."

"I was just about to. And I can tell you right now they're going to taste fine."

"Sure."

"…"

"…"

"…oh."

"Toldja so."

"…eat your chips, Alfred."

* * *

><p><strong>Pizza is a vegetable because it's got tomatoes on it (Y) true story!<strong>

**Well done, US congress.**

**This is just something to amuse you for 0.529837 minutes while I write something more worthwhile (Y) Don't stone me.**

**Review even though I'm a loser? :D **


	14. Mistaken Identity

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred, Arthur, Francis, Matthew  
>Universe: Human, in which there is mistaken identity and Francis is the only sane man around, for once.<br>Genre: Slightly creepy and manic fluff.**

* * *

><p>"You've kidnapped my son."<p>

"I haven't."

"Have!"

"Haven't! And besides, I brought him back!"

Francis looked down. Matthew was looking at the tinned soup on display, one tiny hand gripping Francis's pant leg. He didn't seem too worse for wear.

"Why did you take him in the first place?" Francis demanded.

Arthur looked sheepish. "I thought he was mine."

Francis scowled. "You thought he was yours? How could you _possibly_ think he was yours? They're nothing alike!"

"They're a little alike."

They both looked at Matthew, who was surveying his surroundings amicably. Then they looked at Alfred, who picked his nose and watched them back.

Francis stared at Arthur pointedly.

Arthur threw his hands up. "Fine, I'll admit; they're nothing alike. But I was in a hurry, and Alfred likes to wander off, and I saw this one roaming around by himself… I only noticed I'd gotten the wrong kid once we got home."

"And all that time he was sitting with you in your car, you never noticed that you'd picked up a complete stranger?"

"Well I didn't hear _him_ complaining!"

"He's _five!"_ Francis hissed. "He doesn't know any better!"

"Well I did wonder about the teddy bear, but I couldn't be bothered to ask. Sort of assumed he'd picked it up somewhere and slipped it in with the shopping. Alfred does that sometimes."

"That's awful," replied Francis flatly. "You're awful, and your son is going to find a finger in his brain if he doesn't stop digging so hard."

"That's not true," Alfred piped up. The finger in his nose made him sound like he had a cold. "Uncle Gilbert said I can't reach my brains onnacounta all the empty space in my head." He sounded proud. Arthur ignored him.

"Anyway, I said I'm sorry," he said instead, hands still held up in surrender. "I meant no harm, I promise. I fed him, even!"

Francis tapped Matthew on the head. "Is that true?" he asked.

Matthew looked up, and then his face fell. "Yeah."

"Why do you look so upset?"

"It was yucky."

Arthur gasped. "How rude! My cooking is _not_ yucky; it's just fine. Tell him, Alfred!"

Alfred said nothing.

Francis drew himself up to his full height (which wasn't all that tall, although it's taller than Arthur) and lifted his chin imperiously. "You," he accused, "are a villain, have kidnapped and poisoned my son, and I _will _press charges."

"Oh, come off it."

"Do not pooh-pooh me!" Francis snapped.

"It was an honest mistake, and you know it."

Francis spluttered and looked around for some sort of support from the other shoppers, but the only people in the isle were a Chinese man and a boy of about eleven. Francis lifted a hand imploringly.

"You, sir! Please tell me you understand how I feel. Wouldn't you press charges if some madman spirited your child away from under your nose?"

"I'm not his son, I'm adopted," said the boy helpfully.

Alfred paused in his excavation work. "What's 'adopted'?"

"It's when an adult picks you up and takes you home against your will."

"Like kidnapping?"

"Yes."

The Chinese man dropped a value pack of beans into their trolley, eyes trained on his phone. "No anime till Sunday, Kiku," he said calmly.

"That's my life source, you swine ."

"No X-Box, either."

They left the aisle. Francis kneaded his forehead, frustration condensing into a thrumming cloud of pain behind his eyeballs. "Mad. All of you. And _you_!" he rounded on Arthur, who raised his eyebrows. "Why are you so calm? Were you not in the least bit worried that something might have happened to your own child? For all you could have known, he may have been hurt or scared."

It was a fair point. When Arthur had walked into the supermarket with Matthew in tow, Francis had actually felt his muscles uncoil and relief flood through him. He'd practically thrown himself at his son, peppering him with kisses and clutching him hard enough to make him squeak. Arthur, on the other hand, had merely nodded at Alfred and asked, "alright?" And then he'd gone off to look at the two for one offer on pickled eggs.

Arthur regarded Alfred thoughtfully, mulling over Francis's question. Finally he shrugged.

Francis sighed. "I could have been a child molester or a kidnapper or some sort of lunatic," he pointed out. "I could have taken Alfred home and held him for ransom."

"That's happened, once."

Francis eyeballed him. "That's not a very funny joke."

Arthur shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. "I wasn't joking. Alfred's been kidnapped before. When he was about three. I'd forgotten him at a McDonald's, I think."

"And then what happened?" Francis was aware that his mouth was hanging open, but he didn't bother closing it.

"They called me up and gave him back. Asked if I'd ever thought about a gag and a leash," he smiled ruefully. Alfred grinned.

Francis thought that may have been a little harsh. Then he thought about what watching Alfred had been like, as he waited for his own son to be returned to him. He conceded.

"Fine. You know what? It's fine. It's all fine. You have your son back and I have mine, and now I'm going to go home to make dinner and forget this whole thing ever happened. Alright?"

"Can I come?" asked Alfred.

"No," said Francis.

"Be back by nine," said Arthur.

"I am _not_ taking him home with me. Why does he even want to come?"

"Food," said Alfred cheerfully.

"Your father can cook for you."

"No, I can't. I'm actually pants at it," said Arthur quite truthfully, previous protestations forgotten.

"Cry me a river, that's not my problem."

"Dinner would be nice, actually."

Francis thought about getting angry, and then decided that it wasn't worth the effort. "You've accidentally kidnapped my only son, and now you're going to invite yourself and your little gremlin into my house for a meal?"

Arthur thought about it. "Yes?" he hazarded.

"Go to hell. You're insane and you're not allowed to come anywhere near me or my Matthew. And you should definitely think about a muzzle for him," he nodded toward Alfred.

"You don't have to cook," Arthur offered, ignoring the jab at Alfred because it was true. "We could go out. I'll even buy," he added, quite generously, he thought.

"No."

"Think of it as an apology."

"I don't want your apology."

"Would you like Indian food for dinner, Matthew?" Arthur asked, looking down.

"Okay," Matthew replied.

Francis shushed him. "It's not okay. Leave us alone, please."

"Alfred likes you," Arthur tried. "You're not going to disappoint a child, are you?"

"Leave our children out of this!" Francis nearly barked, too exasperated to care how disgustingly domestic the term 'our children' sounded. "Don't make things up, don't use your child as an excuse to be creepy!"

"I'm not making anything up, he does like you."

"Can I hold your hand?" asked Alfred, finger still in his nose. Francis shuddered.

"You're still creepy and your son makes me uncomfortable," he said. Normally he would never be so blunt (about a small boy, no less), but his patience had long since expired. He wasn't even sure why he was still talking to this freak.

"Don't be like that," said Arthur placidly. As if he found all this _funny_, damn the man. "I'll get Alfred to stop picking his nose. He's a good boy, even if he's not the brightest. Take your finger out of there, now, there's a good lad."

Alfred obliged. Arthur patted him on the head. Francis sighed.

"I'm going home. Please leave me alone forever. Come Matthew," he held out a hand, and Matthew took it. They walked away together, Francis checking over his shoulder a few times as though he was worried that Arthur may follow him. Matthew turned once to wave, but Francis quickly stilled him and hurried out of the supermarket. Alfred had already managed to wave back, though.

Arthur looked down. "What do you think?"

"I guess they're cool," Alfred shrugged. "That kid's kinda quiet but I bet he'd make a good sidekick for when I'm a superhero. His dad's funny."

"Yeah?" Arthur chewed his lip absentmindedly. "I quite fancy him myself. Is it the goatee, do you think? Normally they bother me, but on him it sort of works out. His boy's quiet, easy to deal with."

"Can they come over?"

"I don't see why not; we can have them 'round this weekend if you like."

"Wait," Alfred wrinkled his small nose in concentration. "Mr. Matthew's Dad said we're not allowed to talk to him ever."

Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to the exit, leaving Alfred to trot along behind him. "No worries," he said. "Matthew showed me a card he carries around with his name and address and telephone number, in case he ever gets lost. We can go visit them sometime if you want."

"Nice one, Dad," said Alfred, suitably impressed. He held his hand up for a high five.

Arthur reached down to oblige him, but paused when remembered the snotty finger.

Then he shrugged and high-fived his kid anyway.

And he wiped his finger surreptitiously against the cardboard My Little Ponies display, but nobody would notice that until tomorrow, so no worries.

* * *

><p><strong>"That's my life source, you swine." - ObsessedLanguageFreak, from one of her fics. Go check her out. Srsly.<strong>

**"Please lave me alone forever." - something I would happily say, if only I knew more people.**

**Why does it always take me 50 years to write something? OTL I'm sorry if this wasn't funny, I tried, I reall****y did.**

**But I'm working on a plot to the sequel to Angles, Demons, Angels and Zombies, I swear it! I'm almost done, just working out the kinks. **

**Heh, kinks.**


	15. Lonely Boy

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred, Matthew, the Rock n Roll man  
>Universe: Human, set in the 60's or 70's.<br>Genre: Rock.**

* * *

><p>This is the man who rolled into town in a black Cadillac with a bobble head doll on the dash.<p>

I knew he was bad news. Momma warned us against the ones like him. Daddy'd been like that, and he'd run off with some floozy from downtown. The music, that's what tipped me off. It was the same rock n roll Daddy used to listen to, and Momma too before he left. The man with the black Cadillac sang like he'd been chewed up and spit out by the world and he just didn't care. He wore leather and studs and I listened to Momma, I knew he was trouble. But Alfred, he didn't listen too good.

* * *

><p>This is the man with the guitar in his hand and the music in his soul.<p>

He played in the streets, in the junkyard, but mostly he played in the dingy old bars where the boys and girls bored with their lives go to feel like there's something else out there. I stay away from it. But Alfred don't know no better. Alfred heard the music, and suddenly he wanted to be a part of it.

It's the devil's music, rock and roll. I see it even if no one else does. It's the feeling, the high you get from just singing and shaking your hips and forgetting about everything, because what you don't have don't matter as much as what you do have, and what you do have ain't nothing but the music. And the man with the guitar sings, and the people taste his soul a little. They can feel all those things he sings about, the love and the hate and the sex and the freedom. And I feel it too. Sometimes I imagine not being stuck in this little run-down town.

I don't like the music, but that don't mean I don't get it.

The man with the black Cadillac played and sang and lured Al in deeper. I warned him. I told him no good would come of a man who smoked strange cigarettes and slept outside under the stars. Al shoulda left him be but it ain't really him not to go poking his nose where it don't belong.

* * *

><p>This is the man with the devil's own soul.<p>

I saw him play once, and I heard the words, and the music sounded a little like those cigarettes of his, curling up into thin air and intoxicating us. I watched him hold the microphone and sing a little too desperate, like he wanted the music a little too hard. I knew they was the devil's tunes but Al didn't stand a chance.

He got closer to the rock and roll man and he snuck out at night and I lied to Momma because Al's my brother, and I'll protect him even if I think he's being a fool.

But that don't mean I have to like it.

* * *

><p>They started sharing their stories and sitting out under the stars together wrapped in nothing but each other. And I kept lying to Momma, and Al, he used to be such a nice boy, but not anymore. I saw the change happen. One week he was doing the paper rounds and smiling at the neighbours and the next, he was thin as a rail and smoking those strange cigarettes and telling me to <em>feel the music<em>, _Mattie, 'cause it's the only thing worth feeling._

I didn't wanna feel no music and I knew the rock and roll man was doing my brother wrong, so I went to see him one night after one of his shows. I told him to leave my brother be. I told him he didn't need my brother and he could take his rock music and his guitar and he could keep on travelling and forget this town so we could forget the rock and roll ever existed.

And he smiled and smoked his cigarette and said, "I'm a lonely boy."

* * *

><p>And I saw Al less and less and less. One day I found him packing some things and stuffing them into a bag and I asked him where he was going, and he only said he was going to follow the music. And I asked him if he was in love, and he said, "I don't know what this is but I sure as hell ain't letting it go."<p>

I didn't stop him. Maybe he was too far gone or maybe I just didn't want to get in the way. Maybe a little part of me wondered what it would be like to follow the soulful music wherever it took me. But I couldn't leave Momma alone so I didn't think about it too much.

And the next day he was gone; no note, no explanation, just left all his old baseball posters and took all the cash he had and he was gone. And Momma cried and asked where he was, but I told her I didn't know. I couldn't follow the music or the man with the guitar, but maybe Al could. Maybe dancing with the devil ain't all that bad.

We never saw them again, Al and the rock and roll man.

* * *

><p>When Momma went to sleep that night, I dug through the mess in my brother's room and I found a record. I played it real quiet so Momma wouldn't wake up. It was the devil-music. The rock and roll. I didn't turn it off. I listened to it all night and I still listen to it sometimes, after all these years.<p>

I know who's singing. It's him, the man with the black Cadillac.

This is the man who took my brother away and left me lonely.

* * *

><p><strong>Eugh, new style?<strong>

**Instead of properly coming up with an idea, this time I just wrote whatever came into my head while listening to music (Lonely Boy by The Black Keys, if you'd like to take a listen. It's a lovely song that's just pure rock) and then edited it massively. I wasn't sure about it but Zoe told me to stop being a pussy (I paraphrase) so I figured I'd just post it and see what y'all think.**

**I think I'm at the point where I can't tell what should be a standalone oneshot and what should just be in Shorts. By default, I pick Shorts.**

**Also I am Sherlocked, have I mentioned?**


	16. Wings of Sorrow

**In this one:**

**Characters: Arthur, Francis  
>Universe: Angel!verse<br>Genre: Angst/Romance**

* * *

><p>One day, Francis was rowing his big-ass boat down the river Styx and thinking about how boring and lonely his life was; exempting Feliciano, because he's a baka and doesn't count as a friend, more like a pet goldfish or summat <strong>(AN: but that's okay because he's super kawaii, ne? ^-~).**

On the way to pick up the souls destined for Hell's terrible queues, Francis noticed something odd.

There was the soul of a pastry floating about!

Now Francis was a Frenchman (loosely) and like any good Frenchman, he knew baked delicacies when he saw them. Delighted, he ignored all the other souls in favour of the mysterious pie **(A/N: It's a chocolate and banana pie, in case you want to know!).**

"Zut alors and mon dieu, mon cher!" said Francis. "It eez a pie! 'ow wonderful!"

He was so happy and he wanted to eat the pie, but then, upon closer inspection, the pie was disgusting!

"NOOOOOOOOOOON!" cried Francis in anguish. This poor undeserving pastry had been burnt and then sent into Hell! Who could have done such a thing?

"Arthur!" Francis said suddenly, for there was only one person in the whole universe who could bake this badly. "Grrr! I cannot allow you to ruin innocent food like this, mon ami!"

But then it occurred to him.

Why was Arthur baking a pie and then sending it into Hell? Surely it must be for Francis himself!

Which meant that Arthur had baked and delivered a pie for Francis!

Now this could mean one of two things. Firstly, it could mean that Arthur was trying to murder Francis by giving him epic diarrhea.

OR!

It could possibly be a gesture of love!

Actually, Arther had been in love with Francis for a very long time, but had been too afraid to say so. But little did he know, Francis actually felt the same way all along!

So Francis naturally figured it out **(A/N: because he's French! xD)** and ascended into heaven.

"Arthur, cher! I received your pie!" he cried, golden hair shining in the heavenly sun.

Arthur turned. "Blimey, wot?" he asked in his thick Britaccent** (A/N: I just think British accents are soooo sexy! *fans self*)** "Wot bollocks are you tohkin, Francis? I di'nt bake you a pie."

But Francis held a finger to his lips. "Stop being tsundere, mon cher! I know your secret!"

Arthur turned pale and blushed. Had Francis really figured out Arthur's true feelings? "W-whot secret?"

"I know you like moi," replied Franics.

Arthur gasped, "Baka! That's no' troo! It's not like I wont to sleep with you or anything! Git!"

Francis put his finger against Arthur's peachy lips sensually. "Non, I 'aven't finished speaking. The truth is Arthur...J'etaime!"

Arthur gasped. "Wot.. really? B-baka! Wanker! Are you lying to me?"

Francis shook his head desperately and pulled Arthur into an embrace. "Non, Arthur! I love you! I've loved you for a thousand years! Your tre bien!"

Arthur's body felt hot and he inhaled the scent of Francis's cologne and the musky smell of his glistening man-dew against his rock-hard abs. "Oh, Francis. I... I love you too!" he cried, blushing furiously.

Francis laughed. "Honhonhon!" he laughed in his sexy French accent. "Come Arthur! Let us make amour!" And then he whisked Arthur away into the sunset, where they could live happily ever after.

As they left, Arthur and Francis gazed into each other's eyes and knew that they would belong to nobody but each other.

Forever.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow, that was super hard desu! That was my first fruk fic so i hope u liekd! ^_^ But if you dont then dont tell me!<strong>

**It's yaoi, so dont liek, don't read!**

**i think britannia angel is so kawaii! X3 i just 3 his wings and his short skirt too xD**

**review kudasai! I will give you an internet Neko if you do! NYAAN~! But no flames plzzz!**

**Ja, ne! :3**


	17. Scales

**Just in case anyone is wondering, the previous chapter was a April Fool's thing.**

**Anyway.**

**In this one:**

**Characters: England, France, America, Canada  
>Universe: Canon (more or less)<br>Genre: Fluff**

* * *

><p>The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland has an irrational and very crippling fear of lizards.<p>

He's fine with wriggly, poisonous snakes, and wild, untame-able crocodiles. Even the dragons of lore don't faze him much (one actually comes for a visit every Tuesday). But face him with a scaly, four-legged lizard and England will quail, face turning deathly white, and he will flee without a second thought.

It doesn't matter what kind of lizard it is. As long as it is a lizard, England will be afraid of it. He tells himself that his fear is not without reason, as some of those things are _dangerous _and would happily bite one of his fingers off (it's the reason he absolutely refuses to set foot into Australia's outback. He's convinced that he would be attacked and poisoned by one of the evil creatures within five minutes of arrival. Australia privately thinks this makes England a bit of a sissy, but England pays this no mind as the rest of the world agrees that the boy is a bit touched in the head).

Even the little geckos of Southeast Asia have him running out the door (again, the reason he won't set foot into that part of the world, even when he was ruling there. People think it's because of the stifling heat, but it's really only because the little buggers are fucking_ everywhere_).

It's ridiculous, as England himself knows. He has faced death, dragons, plagues, wars, and even an arranged marriage with France, and none of them have had him whimpering like a small child. Still, as much as he tries to tell himself that his phobia is ridiculous, the absence of seeing a lizard for a long time (as he doesn't get them much in his part of the world, God be praised), has not quelled his fear, only intensified it.

On Tuesday, the poor unsuspecting fellow accompanies France to pay a visit to the twins (America and… his brother). He knocks politely on the door and greets… America's brother (Canadia?) with a smile and a hug and a home-grown bouquet of pink roses that he pointedly gives to Canadia to keep as America will probably only let them die. France kisses the child on both cheeks and hands him a bottle of wine. Canadia smiles sweetly at them and invites them inside, chatting about how America has a brand new pet that he's been bragging about all day.

When England steps inside only to find America proudly holding a very fat, very scaly, very _reptilian_ iguana, he actually feels his heart stop for about five seconds.

Nobody but France knows of England's unfortunate situation (and even he doesn't have the heart to tease him about it, after the time the England actually fainted and nearly fell down a cliff), so the North American twins are very surprised when England's face drains of all colour, and he emits a strange gurgle, which quickly evolves into a shriek, and rockets out the door.

(America will later say England could give Bolt a run for his money).

(Of course, England runs away too quickly to see the flash of surprise and hurt across America's face, or to hear France's quick apologies as he explains the situation and promises that they'll come back to visit properly once he's managed to rectify the problem. The twins have been looking forward to this get-together for weeks and are both crestfallen, which will in turn break England's heart when he comes to know about it).

The next few hours pass in a bit of a blur, but the next thing England knows he is already back at his own house, shivering and two steps away from clinging to the ceiling. He suddenly feels very guilty and very humiliated, and he slumps against the door with his face aflame, wondering how he will ever explain this to his sons.

The next day rolls around and England is still miserable. He hasn't called the boys yet and he hopes (but somehow doubts) that France has managed to make things right.

The knock on his door surprises him, and he shuffles to it almost dreading that it will be America or his brother come to demand why England walked out the day before. Instead, to his immense relief, he finds France with a cardboard box and a determined expression.

"What?" he asks a tad defensively, but France says nothing, only walking past England and setting his box on the ground. He turns sharply on his heel and instructs England to hold out his hand and shut his eyes. England complies after only a few minutes of arguing, albeit suspiciously.

His eyes snap open again when he suddenly finds himself with a handful of something wet and slimy.

He grimaces and only just manages to stop himself from dropping the poor creature in disgust. "I want to make a joke about the frog giving me a frog, but really, what is this?" he asks. The frog (not Francis; it's a real frog this time) stares at him through baleful eyes.

"You're not afraid, are you?" France asks, for once serious. England immediately colours and stares at the frog (the one in his hand, not France). He mumbles a soft no, and France pats him on the cheek for it.

"I know you aren't doing this on purpose, but this fear of yours is silly and has to stop. I'm going to help you. I need your word that you will trust me and do whatever I ask."

England opens his mouth at this to say that he would never do something as foolish as to trust a frog of all people, but then he thinks of what his sons must think of him and how much of a pillock he must seem in their eyes. Against his better judgment, he agrees.

France smiles approvingly and gently retrieves the frog (the irony nearly makes England laugh), which goes back into the small box with a reproachful croak. France then asks England to shut his eyes again, which England does with growing apprehension.

Something else is placed in his hand. It is dry and light and feels like it has tiny claws. England's hands immediately start to shake, and he squeaks. "France, please don't tell me that this is what I think it is."

France says nothing, only wrapping his arms around England's waist and whispering soothing French into his ear. England trembles more and itches, positively _burns_ to throw the thing away but France's hand is covering his own and he can't move much, so all he does is tremble and curse and feel like he's going to die of embarrassment.

After two minutes that seem like two millennia, England finally stops shaking so much. He only shakes a bit as France slowly lets go of him, but the tremors come back full force when France tells him to open his eyes. With a deep breath, he looks down only to find-

-a small plastic dinosaur sitting in his hand.

He nearly laughs out loud with relief. "You bastard, what was that for? You scared me half to death thinking it was a real lizard."

France smiles. "But you held it, even though you didn't know what it was. A breakthrough, no? Although we still have a long way to go." He takes back the dinosaur and tosses it carelessly into his box, which emits a muffled croak, and flings his arms around his (more or less) husband. The other hugs him back for once instead of pushing away.

"I will be back tomorrow and we will continue," France tells him, and England nods in response.

(It's terribly silly, but he wants so badly to get over this.)

The next day France returns with a plastic lizard. The day after that a lizard made of jelly. Then they graduate to a real lizard, a tiny gecko, followed by several other lizards of increasing size and ugliness. After two weeks France is able to get England to poke at a baby monitor lizard without screeching in fright (though God only knew how France managed to smuggle _that_ into the country).

They schedule another meeting with the boys, England clinging apprehensively to France's elbow all the way as he knows what will be in store for him when he arrives. America's brother whose name escapes everyone opens the door again with an uncharacteristically sombre expression. England is ushered in. The air in the house is grim and tense. Had he not been so afraid, England would laugh.

America stands in the living room with the unholy beast, absurdly named Leon, in his arms. His face is hopeful. He stands stock still as England takes a deep breath and comes closer, France following from behind. Canadia watches from the sidelines.

England stares the iguana down. It stares back, unfazed.

He takes another breath and shuts his eyes. _There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of_, he tells himself. _America's holding it without a care in the world, look how unafraid he is! He's frightened of silly things like ghosts, everyone knows ghosts don't hurt you, you can't let him show you up-_

The internal monologue continues as England, slowly, reluctantly outstretches a finger and reaches out towards the thing. With baited breath, the others can only look on as he gets closer and closer-

-and finally manages to brush his finger against its side.

It isn't much, but it's enough. England draws back immediately and turns to bury his face into France's chest with a shudder of disgust. France pats him on the head and congratulates him for being so brave as Canadia gives them both a hug. America beams and drops Leon on the couch so that he can group hug them all (although England shudders some more because he doesn't want to be embraced by America's lizardy hands) and all is right in the world.

They share dinner afterwards, heaping praises on an embarrassed but oddly pleased England as Canadia passes the sprouts. The happiness lasts well into the night when England and France are finally ushered off to the guest bedroom upstairs and Canadia tells them that he will share a room with his brother.

England's content. France kisses him and Canadia kisses him and America asks him to kiss Leon goodnight and England is having none of that, but even though his fear hasn't exactly been conquered, England sleeps peacefully through the night even with the knowledge that there is a God-forsaken _lizard_ in the house.

* * *

><p>Three months later America shows them his new pet Tarantula, and then it is France's turn to scream.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Fanfiction, I don't update for two months and when I come back, you've completely changed. <strong>**What happened? You're not the one I fell in love with. **

**Now you're just some website where I used to go.**

**Seriously though, two months has been ages, hasn't it? Ahahaha sorry, sorry. See the thing is I got a waitressing job in May so that whole month has just flown by without my noticing, ha ha ha.**

**OTL Forgive me.**

**Also! If anyone has a Tumblr, I have a fanfiction blog. :D It's .com, if you're interested. Huhuhuhu.**

**I'm glad to be back!**


	18. I'd Like To Buy The World A

**In this one:**

**Characters: Artie, Alfred, Matthew  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Dumb**

* * *

><p><em>Ding.<em>

A muffled voice calls out from somewhere invisible but Arthur doesn't really pay much attention to it, because he's got to get to work in the next fifteen minutes or he'll get in trouble with the bitch editor again. He's only stopped by the 7-Eleven to grab a Coke (because contrary to popular belief, the English _can_ ingest liquids other than tea. Water, for example. And gin). The weather's hot as fuck and the air-conditioning in his car doesn't work as well as it should, and driving around with the windows down doesn't help much when the air outside is just as stifling as the air inside.

The shop's nice and cool, though. He'd hang around for a bit, if he didn't have somewhere to be.

He picks up a bottle from the fridge and sets it on the counter, clearing his throat for the cashier. There's another muffled yell and a then a young man steps out from the back of the shop, holding one of those price tag-sticking things. He looks young; barely legal even. He's cute, though. In a college-boy sort of way.

"Hold on, hold on," the boy says, slipping behind the cash register. _Alfred_, says the tag on his shirt. He looks up to see Arthur properly. And it's then that his eyebrows go up, and his expression changes from 'harried' to 'sly'.

"Hel-_lo_," he grins, sweeping his eyes appreciatively over what little he can see of Arthur from behind the counter.

Arthur pauses, blinks, and then realises that he's maybe possibly being flirted with. Then he realises he should be annoyed and a bit disturbed. But instead, he's only bemused.

"You got a name, mister?" asks Alfred.

Arthur gives him a small, slightly confused smile. "What's it to you?" he asks in return. Alfred shrugs and laughs.

"Where ya from? You a Brit?"

"English," Arthur clarifies. "Why do you ask?"

Alfred bats his eyes –actually_ bats _them, what on earth is wrong with this boy- and smiles. "Nothing wrong with asking."

Arthur suppresses a grin and just points at the bottle leaving a wet ring on the counter. Alfred picks it up and runs it over the scanner, still smiling at Arthur less-than innocently. Arthur looks away.

"That'll be a dollar seventy-five," Alfred purrs. He means for it to come out smooth, but Arthur thinks it's ridiculous, because he's only just a kid and obviously hitting on him. It's sort of cute, because Alfred obviously doesn't really know what he's doing and that makes Arthur want to laugh at him. He doesn't, though.

"Hang on," he says instead, and fishes his wallet out of his pocket. He doesn't have any change, so he gives the kid a fifty. Alfred takes it with a wink and presses a button, and the register pops open.

Alfred's face suddenly falls. "Oh. I, uh, actually don't have enough change for you right now."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "What, really?"

Alfred looks up apologetically and shakes his head. "Not unless you want another ten dollars worth of candy or something."

Arthur wrinkles his nose and Alfred laughs good-naturedly. Arthur checks his wallet again.

"I don't have any change either. Well, I mean, I have a dollar. That's about all I can spare; I need the rest to pay for my parking ticket once I get to work."

Alfred falters and chews on his lip, eyes darting elsewhere as he tries to think of a solution. Arthur sighs.

"You know what, never mind," he says kindly. "I won't take it. Thanks anyway."

His smile turns into a frown the moment he turns away, because it really is a hot day and this is sort of a stupid situation to be in. He's almost at the door when Alfred calls out suddenly.

"Wait," he says, and when Arthur turns with raised brows, Alfred's smiling again. Arthur goes back to the counter.

"What?" he asks, not quite trusting this kid's expression.

Alfred smiles wider. "I'd be happy to pay for the extra seventy-five cents so you can have that Coke. Not for _free,_ though."

One of Arthur's eyebrows falls, leaving its neighbor stranded in the middle of his forehead. "What?"

Alfred waggles his own eyebrows suggestively. "Gimme some sugar and we'll call it a debt paid off."

Arthur stares at him for a moment before he understands what's being asked of him, and then he actually bursts out laughing.

"Do you have any idea how _old_ I am?" he asks. "I'm probably almost twice your age."

Alfred shrugs. "Age is just a number, man. Do you want the Coke or not? It's not a bad deal, you know. A refreshing beverage for a dollar and a kiss. It's a real steal." He holds up the bottle like the girls do in the ads, and Arthur nearly laughs again. Instead he just smiles, not quite platonic this time.

"I see. So if I add a little tongue, do I get to keep the other dollar?"

Now Alfred looks surprised, although not in any way displeased. "You'd make out with a guy for a bottle of Coke?" he asks. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I said a _little _tongue."

Alfred appears to consider this for a moment. Then he shrugs. "Why the hell not," he says and leans over the counter, laughing. "Come here, cutie."

Arthur kisses him.

It's slow and sweet and he slips in _more_ than a little tongue. Tastes like sour cream and onion, which means that Alfred's probably been snacking in the back of the shop. Alfred's not that great a kisser, but he's enthusiastic and Arthur's having a hard time not grinning like an idiot. Instead he leads, moving slowly but surely, until he thinks that's he's kissed this silly boy enough for one dollar and seventy-five cents worth of soda and they break apart for air. Alfred's gone slightly cross-eyed and Arthur's mouth is wet.

"Wow," says Alfred.

"Thanks," says Arthur, and he picks up the bottle and walks away, unfazed. Giving in to childish impulse, he stops to wink at Alfred over his shoulder. The door jingles again as he leaves.

It's only when he gets in the car when he starts to wonder how a big franchise like 7-Eleven could possibly run out of change for fifty dollars. Then he realises that he's probably just been had.

But hey, free Coke. Arthur isn't complaining. It's a good bargain for $1.75.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Alfred sits on the couch in his shared apartment, fiddling with a Gameboy. He's deep in concentration when the front door opens and his brother comes in, setting his backpack on the counter. "Hey, Al," he greets, and Alfred grunts in response.<p>

Matthew works at the local ice-cream parlour. His uniform is cute; he's got red and white stripes on his shirt. He sits down next to Alfred with a sigh, planting his feet in his brother's lap. "You won't believe what happened today," he says. Alfred pauses the game and looks up. Matthew takes it as a cue to continue.

"Some British guy came in today. Monster eyebrows. Thought I was you."

Alfred makes a surprised noise. "Really?" he asks. "What'd he say?"

Matthew shrugs. "Not much. He was all, 'weren't you that boy from the 7-Eleven?' and then I had to tell him ,'that was my brother, I'm the _other_ guy'. He was pretty nice, though. Bought a sundae cause the weather was so hot."

Alfred suppresses a smile behind his console. "And he paid for his food?" he asks. Matthew gives him a weird look.

"Duh. Why wouldn't he pay? He let me keep the change, even."

Alfred tilts his head innocently. "Yeah? How much?"

"Dollar seventy-five. Why?"

Alfred smiles wide and goes back to his console. "No, no reason. Do we have any Coke?"

* * *

><p><strong>Aw man I am sO DUMB<strong>

**The fanfiction blog is supercrunched dot tumblr dot commmmm**

**yeah**

**Man Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter was ridiculous.**

**But also cool. **


	19. Pearl

**In this one:**

**Characters: Ivan  
>Universe: HumanOther thing AU  
>Genre: Melancholy? I'm no good at naming these things.<br>**

* * *

><p>It's almost midnight when Ivan decides to take a walk along the beach.<p>

He doesn't live in a beach house, although he wishes he did. Must be nice to be surrounded by warmth and sunshine and people enjoying themselves all the time. Ivan doesn't get to enjoy himself. He's an army boy, and he'll only be staying here for a while before moving on. He can't really even remember where he is. All he knows is that it's a long way from home, and it'll be no time before he's forced to go elsewhere and keep on doing what he's been doing for the past two years (no, he doesn't know what he's been doing, either. It's all a blur to him and he feels useless, useless, useless).

It's a nice night, though. He steps outside his quarters and walks alone to the seaside. The jacket he's wearing is unnecessary because it's not cold even with the breeze (although Ivan's 'cold' may not be the same as everyone else's). His scarf is sitting safely in his trunk. Ivan knows not to wear it when it isn't absolutely safe. But generally, nobody bothers him. There's something about six and a half feet of Russian that people would rather avoid.

He takes off his shoes and walks barefoot in the sand, enjoying how it feels between his toes. Back home, it would've been snow, and it wouldn't have been quite so pleasant (although the sand is white, and if Ivan squints he can pretend).

He's all alone. Normally, that would bug him, but tonight it feels a little like the moon's keeping him company with her soft liquid light. It's silent too, except for the groans of the sea. For a moment Ivan considers just lying in the sand until he falls asleep. He'd look homeless but oh well. He could always deal with questions tomorrow.

It's just him, the moon and a bottle of whiskey.

There are noises coming from behind some big rocks. They sound like splashing, and their irregularity amidst a background of the steady sea is a little jarring. Ivan notices it immediately. It would probably be best to let it be, but the sting of his drink makes Ivan adventurous and so he goes over to investigate.

The sea's almost black and Ivan can't see much even when he goes so far as to climb onto one of those rocks jutting out of the water. He still hears the splashing, though. Odd, he thinks. He calls out in Russian, and then in heavily accented English.

"Hello?"

The noises stop. This is even more discomfiting than the racket from earlier, because there's a sudden eerie silence and Ivan feels very vulnerable. He clears his throat and wonders if he's getting hung up over nothing. He certainly isn't drunk enough to try and strike up a conversation with a fish.

He scans the area for any signs of life. His sight falls upon what looks like a small rock about ten feet away that's a different colour from all the others. It's lighter and a lot less craggy. He stares for a second. Perhaps it's just the alcohol messing with him, but Ivan thinks that the rock looks just a bit like a head. A blonde one.

Unconsciously he leans closer to it although there's no possible way for him to reach.

The rock suddenly moves. It startles Ivan, who falls backward onto his behind. He blinks rapidly and tries to see where it may have darted off to. He wishes he'd brought a flashlight.

Wait, no. _There _it is; it's even further away now. This time it definitely looks like a head, and this time Ivan sees a neck and shoulders and a little bit of a hand as the creature (person?) peers back at him from behind the safety of another crag.

Ivan is very quiet. He can't tell whether or not his eyes are playing tricks on him so he stares and stares until he's seeing stars. A few sips of the whiskey help, though.

Eventually, very slowly, the person (yes, Ivan's sure it's a person, sea creatures don't look like that) sinks back down almost all the way. The stranger slowly comes over, although all Ivan can see in the dark water is the top of a head. Whoever's in the water is wading toward him, but only their eyes are visible. The rest of their face is submerged.

The person comes close, about five feet away. A pair of eyes so blue and bright (are they glowing?) that they seem like their own little stars shine back at him. He regards the person silently. Apart from the eyes, all Ivan can tell is that they are fair-haired.

The Eyes come even closer. Ivan stares back unabashedly. Curiosity gets the better of him and he slowly reaches out.

His hand is bitten.

He draws it back quickly and holds it up to his face to inspect the damage. There are small puncture wounds that must have been caused by very sharp teeth. The Eyes have scooted back some. Ivan stares incredulously.

"…you bit me."

They don't move for a while, the one in the water watching suspiciously and Ivan staring back. "I really can't believe you did that," Ivan tells the stranger. He's still a little stunned.

The Eyes suddenly grow bold again. The mysterious figure comes closer and this time, deigns to raise their head out of the water so Ivan can see them properly.

It's a boy. He's very pretty; blonde and blue-eyed and what little Ivan can see of his body is toned and lithe. The eyes are gorgeous in a reptilian way. The person grins at him and Ivan sees two rows of sharp, small, uneven teeth.

"Hello?"

The only reply he gets is a rapid clicking sound. The young man doesn't move. Ivan can't help but think that there's something not quite right with him.

"What are you doing out swimming so late?"

Ivan reaches out again, slower this time. The person in the water allows him to get closer, albeit warily. Ivan's hand is stared at intently as he slowly, carefully reaches to cup the boy's face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He runs his hand up, tickling the boy's ear, and touches soft, wet hair. His skin doesn't feel as smooth as it looks. Despite being wet, it feels almost dehydrated and a bit scaly. Ivan thinks it must be from the saltwater.

The boy comes closer, starting to grin wide. Ivan only watches as he comes right up to the edge of the rock Ivan's sitting on. Ethereal eyes that don't look human gleam at him.

"Who are you?" asks Ivan in Russian.

Without warning, one of the boy's arms shoots out and he grabs Ivan by the leg. Ivan gasps and expects that he will be pulled into the water, but instead his lap is used as a platform for the boy to hoist himself up next to him.

Ivan stares.

The young man is completely naked (and Ivan was right; he is _very_ nice to look at. His muscles ripple and glisten in the moonlight and Ivan is tempted to reach out and-) but that's not a cause for concern. His skin is smooth all the way from his face to his torso. Around his hips, however, his body begins to warp, to change shape and colour and texture.

Where there should be a pair of legs there is only a shimmering blue tail.

Ivan wonders how strong the whiskey really was. The fishtail wriggles a bit, all sinewy muscle and power. It's thick, but tapers till the end and then fans out again into a beautiful arch. It dangles over the edge of their impromptu seat, swishing back and forth idly.

The boy leans forward to bring his face closer to Ivan's. He stares for a minute and then reaches down and starts to play with Ivan's feet.

"Huh." Ivan thinks. He's met many soldiers in his time. Listened to their stories. He remembers a crazy Dane who used to talk of folklore. He remembers one story in particular, about a race of half fish-half humans that lived under the sea and shunned the ones on land.

The Dane had said many things. He had talked of their beauty and of their song designed to lure men from their homes. Ivan thinks that this boy is indeed beautiful, in the same way as the moonlight. Ominous and eerie, offering no warmth or familiarity. Beautiful and shining and completely detached from the earth.

The merman grins.

"I am Ivan," Ivan tells him in Russian. He doesn't think the mystery man understands him, so it doesn't matter what language he uses. The merman only smiles and makes a strange, high-pitched noise. Ivan has no idea what it means.

Is he just drunk or is he really going crazy?

The merman continues investigating Ivan's feet, playing with his toes and bending them in every direction to see where they will go. He seems fascinated. He plucks excitedly at Ivan's clothes and tries to make sense of his wristwatch. He points at Ivan's whiskey bottle and Ivan demonstrates by taking a sip. The bottle is snatched from his hand and eagerly downed, only to be coughed back up immediately. The merman makes a noise of disgust and the nearly half-full bottle is dropped without ceremony.

Ivan smiles. "You should have taken it slow."

The merman clicks at him again. He takes one of Ivan's hands in his own and plays with it, tugging at the skin between his fingers. The merman's own fingers are webbed.

Ivan's nose is grabbed, which is unpleasant, and then his neck is caressed on both sides, which is very pleasant indeed. He wonders at first what could possibly be so interesting about his neck until the merman takes Ivan's hand and places is on his own still-damp throat.

"Gills?" Ivan feels slits in the skin, like those on a fish. The boy has them running all along the sides of his neck. Perhaps this must be how he survives underwater. Ivan notices that the other hasn't blinked once in the past ten minutes.

The merman fusses over Ivan's pants, and after a minute manages to roll them up so he can feel Ivan's legs. Ivan flexes his joints and the merman makes an excited exclamation. Ivan, feeling just a little bit proud for no real reason, manages to get unsteadily onto his feet. He hasn't had much to drink, but the rock is slippery and he must concentrate so he doesn't slip and fall into the water.

He takes two steps, which is really all he can manage in their limited space. The merman claps his hands in glee. Ivan sits back down and is allowed, in return, to run his hands along the expanse of the metallic blue tail. It's hard and strong (Ivan touches it for a little longer than he really needs to).

The merman suddenly sits upright and grabs at the front of Ivan's jacket, chattering away in a series of impossible sounds. "What?" Ivan asks, but the merman pays him no attention. He turns and falls back into the water, disappearing with a splash and a swish of the tail.

Ivan is surprised and wonders what just happened. He sits there, vaguely hoping the strange creature will return instead of leaving him sitting on a rock like an idiot. Fifteen or so minutes pass and Ivan starts to wonder if the fishman intends to come back at all.

Then, there are ripples and a blonde head resurfaces with a triumphant grin. Something wet is tossed onto the rock next to Ivan, and the merman hoists himself up right after. He picks up the lump and presents it to Ivan with a proud grin.

Ivan takes it and tries to make sense of it. It seems like a jacket, although it's hard to tell in the minimal light. It's leather, although it's peeling in places. If Ivan remembers correctly from the pictures in his history books as a boy, this is the kind of jacket that the bombers used to wear in the forties. There is bedraggled fur lining the hood and a white symbol that Ivan can't really make out because the whole article is faded and peeling from age and salt.

There's a tag on the inside of the collar. Ivan peers at it and has a very hard time trying to make out the words written in faded permanent marker. "_Alfred J-"_ is all he can gather from his limited understanding of romanised letters.

"Did you pick this up from a rotten, fallen soldier?" Ivan asks the merman. "Or are you older than you look?"

The merman digs around in the pocket of the jacket. He pulls out what used to be a pair of glasses, although now only the frames are left. Then he waves them around, hooking his finger through one side.

Ivan gently takes the spectacles and sets them on the merman's face. Strangely, the round frames suit him. He positively crows with delight.

"Alfred. That's a good name. A strong, distinguished name. Are you an Alfred? What is your name?" Ivan is talking mostly to himself, but the merman pauses to flash him a smile.

The merman (Alfred? Ivan can't help but think of him as Alfred now, though he knows that's not right) keeps the glasses on. One by one he extracts things from the pockets of the jacket –pens, a compass, a lucky charm- and patiently Ivan demonstrates what they are.

The night goes on and Ivan is still talking to Alfred the merman even though he knows he isn't understood. He gets various noises in reply. At one point Alfred dives into the water again and returns with shellfish. He holds an oyster out to Ivan, who takes it and doesn't know what to do with it. Alfred laughs (barks) and takes it back, banging it against the edge of the rock and cracking it open. He pries it apart deftly and rips the flesh out.

He holds it out to Ivan, who isn't impressed. Alfred does something like a shrug and throws his head back, downing the thing in one swallow. He is about to throw the shell back into the water when he stops suddenly and points.

There is a small pearl sitting at the bottom. It's not very smooth and a little deformed, but Ivan is intrigued. Alfred notices this and delicately picks the pearl out, handing it to Ivan with a click.

Ivan stares at it. This would be worth nothing to a jeweler, because it has hardly any aesthetic value. It's not completely spherical and he thinks he can see some pock marks. Ivan thinks it's rather pretty, though.

The night goes on. Ivan is nodding off as the sky brightens, yawns punctuating his every sentence. Alfred sits patiently by him and pats his hand, plays with his feet and tries to offer him more raw shellfish (Ivan, in a moment of sleepy gratitude, dares to try one. He regrets it).

He is only vaguely aware of himself as he leans closer and closer into Alfred, actually using him as a prop to keep himself upright. He's not exactly sure when he finally falls asleep, but eventually he does black out to the noise of the waves and Alfred's steady clicking.

When he wakes up again, his body feels broken. He worries for a minute if he is lying immobile in some battlefield, before he remembers that he is only lying immobile on a big rock. He sits up, bones popping, and realises that he is alone.

He wonders what he has been doing, sleeping here of all places. People have already started to walk around on the beach, and they are giving Ivan strange glances. Ivan doesn't blame them. He thinks he is crazy himself, because he sees no empty alcohol bottle to tell him that he was only passed out drunk.

What the hell happened last night? Ivan remembers taking a walk on the beach, and then nothing. Vaguely he sees in his mind flashes of gold and metallic blue, although that could mean anything. He wonders if he'd had company.

He swings his legs off the rock and notices with distaste that there are a lot of dead mollusk-things around him. Pollution is bad in this day and age. He gets back onto the sand gingerly, wondering what time it is and if he will be able to get himself something to eat. Perhaps he can buy something on the way back because the barracks sure as hell aren't going to feed him after his little disappearing act.

He pats himself down for his wallet before realising that the jacket he's wearing isn't his. It's old and it doesn't smell all that great. He thinks about this for a minute. He's sure he left last night with cotton, not leather. He feels around in the pockets, but they're empty. All he can find is a small round stone that shines a creamy white under the weak morning sun.

He thinks. He must have gotten drunk last night and wandered out alone, even though he has no hangover at the moment. His back is killing him but he knows his Commander will probably punish him even worse when he gets back. He wonders if one of the locals will be kind enough to direct him to the barracks, but he sort of doubts they will bother with him.

He doesn't blame anyone. It's not like he could repay them. He's got no money, no cards. No papers, even. Ivan is just one lonely foreigner who's lost on a beach.

All he has is a shiny white stone and a jacket that doesn't fit.

* * *

><p><strong>College is eating up my life. Thank god for holidays.<br>**

**I'm having fun, though!  
><strong>


	20. Social Networking

**In this one:**

**Characters: Lol  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Lol  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Arthur Kirkland<strong> has uploaded a new photo.

**Arthur Kirkland** Finally brought our babies home! The adoption process was a pain but I'd gladly do it a thousand times more for these two angels. Aren't they just the cutest things? The one on the left is Alfred and the other is Matthew.

**Elizabeta Herdevery** where's Matthew?

**Elizabeta Herdevery** oh, never mind, I see him.

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** the little guy with the bear looks like hes gonna grow up to be a serial killer ngl

**Francis Bonnefoy** Shut up, Bertle. Matthew looks just like me, doesn't he? You're jealous.

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** i love kids, man. boiled, grilled, stir-fried chinese-style with oyster sauce…

**Elizabeta Herdevery** Eew, dislike. you're not coming anywhere near my kids when I have them :(

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** yeah good luck with that seeing as I'm gna be the father and all

**Elizabeta Herdevery** you're still not coming near them.  
>-<strong>2 people<strong> like this-

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** thanks, friends. and wife.

**Arthur Kirkland** Stop being stupid, you two.

**Feli Vargas** omg they're soooooo cute! :DDDDDD im so happy for you guys!

**Francis Bonnefoy** Aren't they just? I just want to sit around and stare at them all day.

**Lovino Fucking Vargas** Freak.

**Arthur Kirkland** He's always been a freak.  
>-<strong>3 people<strong> like this-

**Francis Bonnefoy** Thanks, friends. And wife.

**Ludwig Bielschmidt** I suggest you don't leave Francis with the children unsupervised. I remember he used to terrorise me as a child whenever Gilbert wasn't around.

**Ludwig Bielschmidt** Until I finally hit puberty.

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** hahahahahah oh yeah i remember that, all of a sudden you were like a fucking brick wall and you beat the crap outta franny. coolest thing youve ever done, bro

**Feli Vargas** other than me :D  
>-<strong> Francis Bonnefoy<strong> likes this-

**Ludwig Bielschmidt** Feliciano...

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA OMG

**Arthur Kirkland** All of you go away.

**Feli Vargas** but babies :D

**Lovino Fucking Vargas** Stop spamming my news feed. Take your unresolved sexual tension somewhere else or you'll ruin the kids.

**Francis Bonnefoy** Arthur and I took care of all our sexual tension during the honeymoon. Now it's just plain sex.

**Elizabeta Herdevery** :D

**Lovino Fucking Vargas** D:

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** coughcoughfaggotcough

**Francis Bonnefoy** Istillgetmorethanyoucough

**Arthur Kirkland** That's probably true.

**Elizabeta Herdevery** hey, was that a jab at the way I treat Gilbert?

**Francis Bonnefoy** Of course not.

**Elizabeta Herdevery** I think it was. you're saying I don't put out. Gil, come home immediately so we can fix this.

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** YAY THANKS FRANNY I'M GETTING LAID TONIGHT

**Elizabeta Herdevery** but pick up some eggs on the way.

**Gilbert Awesomeschmidt** kay see ya soon honey :DDD

**Arthur Kirkland** …he's so whipped.  
>-<strong>3 people<strong> like this-

**Antonio Carridouchebag** hey guys, cute picture! where'd you get it?

**Francis Bonnefoy **Toni… did you let Lovino sign into your facebook?

**Antonio Carridouchebag** haha, yeah, how'd you know?

**Antonio Carridouchebag** ?what happened to my name?

**Arthur Kirkland** Lol.  
>-<strong>5 people<strong> like this-

* * *

><p><strong>I'm sorry.<strong>


	21. High School High

**In this one:**

**Characters: Elizabeta, Gilbert, Arthur, Francis, Ludwig, Antonio  
>Universe: Human AU<br>Genre: Fluff**

* * *

><p>This is the thing with Gilbert Beildschmidt. He is very, very persistent.<p>

He's also an annoying fuck.

Elizabeta finds this out exactly two point five hours after transferring into a new school. She's taking a class in advanced calculus, which turns out to be a bad idea for two reasons. One of them is that Elizabeta, like many people her age, is a firm believer in mathematics involving numbers and does not feel any pleasure in doing sums that contain errant letters and funny looking Greek symbols.

The second reason is that the boy sitting right behind her, by way of greeting, blows a spitball in her hair.

She ignores it at first, because she is a good fucking person and she is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the idiot also ends up in her world history class, and when she feels a second spitball to the back of the neck, she turns around right in the middle of the lecture and gives him a glare promising death.

And this dumbass, this albino kid with the crooked teeth and the bird's nest of hair, just grins at her and says hi.

She ignores him after that.

And you know what, it's not so easy, because while Elizabeta is pretty easy to get along with and there are almost always people around her, this Gilbert kid just _doesn't give up._ He's there when she stops to grab a drink at the fountain, he's there when she's looking for a place to sit during lunch, he's there when she's on the way to get changed for P.E.

When it comes to the point where he's hanging around outside the girls' restroom waiting for her to show up, Elizabeta puts her foot down.

"Look," she says, "it's nice that you're always trying to talk to me and everything, but would you mind easing up? You're starting to creep me out just a little bit."

And she goes on to explain very gently why stalking her whenever she is on school grounds is not really acceptable, and lists down all the reasons that she would like him to stop. And Gilbert nods and hums at all the right moments and is very attentive all way through her short speech.

And then, right after she's finished, he opens his mouth and says, "You're pretty. See you after school?"

And Elizabeta sighs and purses her lips because, okay, apparently this boy isn't the brightest bulb in the box, and words aren't really working so well, right, so the quickest option would be to find an alternate way of driving home the message. So she nods and does something she hasn't done since she was nine years old with a bloody knee and two teeth missing.

She draws back her arm, and punches him square in the nose.

* * *

><p>She feels bad about it when Gilbert staggers back, bewildered, clutching at his bleeding face. She feels bad when those two friends of his rush over from wherever they were to help him off the floor. She feels bad when she turns on her heels and walks away because she's already ten minutes late to her next class.<p>

And then she _stops_ feeling bad when she hears Gilbert's awe-struck voice murmur, "I think I'm in love."

* * *

><p>Things go downhill from there.<p>

Because, you can say what you want about Gilbert being a lazy narcissistic asshole, but the guy really never gives up. He shows up at school the next day with a broken nose and a fistful of flowers (which would be a lot more romantic if they didn't still have dirt clumped at the roots) and proceeds to tell Elizabeta, very loudly, in front of their whole History class, that the two of them should "totally date and shit".

And Elizabeta should really just punch him again in his already broken nose, except that she doesn't do that because she can get pretty violent but she's not actually _mean_, so what she does instead is stare at him with her mouth open a little bit even as the class snickers around her.

She turns around to her teacher, and Mr. Vargas, the bastard, has actually stopped in the middle of teaching to watch what's going on with that amused shit-eating grin of his. She looks at him in mute appeal and he, she can barely believe it, waggles his eyebrows and tells her to _answer the boy, don't keep everyone in suspense._

So Elizabeta, being the only sane person in the room, says no.

* * *

><p>Naturally, Gilbert doesn't take the hint.<p>

* * *

><p>The next day, he arrives bearing a teddy bear bigger than he is, and terrifies a few of the students by sticking it outside the window of Elizabeta's Literature class so that it is the first thing they see when the teacher draws the curtains at eight o'clock Thursday morning.<p>

Elizabeta stares at it and feels dread pooling at the pit of her stomach and knows in her heart of hearts that Gilbert is behind this. Except, you know what, Gilbert is _literally_ behind this, because that gigantic teddy bear is waving its arms around and it's actually more creepy than cute, and their teacher is a frail creature who is prone to bouts of hyperventilation, and oh god everyone's looking at her and her teacher is having an asthma attack and Elizabeta does _not_ want to be held responsible for this.

So she is very, very grateful when that kid with the eyebrows stands up, exits the classroom, and reappears outside the window to clock Gilbert on the back of the head and drag him off to the disciplinary room.

(Elizabeta makes sure to buy Arthur a chocolate milk after that).

Things die down for a while, because Elizabeta assumes that Gilbert must have been given detention for a few days. She feels a little bit bad, but eventually decides that being guilty is better than being harassed, and you know what, she can live with that. Life is pretty good. Elizabeta is enjoying school, she's made quite a few friends, and her studies, save for calculus, are challenging and entertaining. Elizabeta starts to think that she will have a very good year ahead of her.

And then Gilbert's friends get involved.

* * *

><p>She doesn't actually know them, but according to Arthur (whom Elizabeta has gotten pretty chummy with after bonding over chocolate milk and a mutual disapproval of Gilbert), they're a rowdy bunch. Not really <em>bad <em>kids, but their shared life goal is to be a gigantic pain in the collective arses of the world.

(Especially the blonde one. Elizabeta is warned not to touch the blonde one, for fear of contracting some form of exotic venereal disease. In fact, she is told, the best thing to do is to hit him with something hard the moment he gets within touching distance. She wonders about the validity of this advice. Arthur assures her it is gospel.)

She is having lunch with Arthur one day, in fact, when there is a very loud commotion and kids suddenly begin to rush to the windows. Elizabeta, curious as to what could possibly be happening, ignores the small voice in her head telling her to go home now, and goes to see what everyone is laughing at.

In retrospect, she thinks that she maybe sort of should have seen it coming, because she has already learnt in the space of a week that gangly albino children with scruffy shoes do not take no for an answer. It is not, she thinks, entirely surprising that Gilbert has decided to serenade her, very loudly, without a shirt on, to Bette Midler's _Wind Beneath My Wings_ while his friends respectively sit on the boombox and throw flower petals at a stand fan. She considers, perhaps, that she would have laughed along with the crowd if Gilbert did not have the name _Eliza__berta _written on his chest in Sharpie.

She takes some comfort in the fact that Gilbert is called in once again, this time for violating the school's rules on public indecency, but she is snickered at for the rest of the week and this ruins her good mood entirely.

* * *

><p>She has, many times, listened to her friends' starry-eyed accounts of boys who have left chocolates and love letters in their lockers. She herself has never had the pleasure of experiencing this, but she is told that the feeling is wonderful.<p>

The feeling is not actually wonderful when she comes to school to find a bar of partly melted chocolate stuffed haphazardly in the slit of her locker, but she accepts this in her stride and decides that a bit of something sweet is quite nice to have after lunch, and she thanks Gilbert with a sincere smile for his trouble.

Arthur will, when asked, say that this is the reason behind what happens later that afternoon.

The thing is, Elizabeta will attest, is that even though he is lazy and has the attention span of a gnat, Gilbert does actually try when it comes to academics. History, for him, is the most difficult, which to Elizabeta is a bit strange because it is her personal favourite, but Gilbert rivals Arthur with the amount of work he puts into his grades. Which is why, when Gilbert stands up in front of the class to give a presentation that afternoon, he manages to completely and utterly fuck it up.

"Napoleon was _not_ involved in World War Two," Mr Vargas sighs while the other students laugh, and Gilbert chuckles along and tries to write it off as a joke. Elizabeta knows he is lying, because when Gilbert sits back down she notices notes written up and down his arms in ball point pen. She feels bad for him first, and then immediately gets angry and snaps at the person next to her to _stop with the goddamn laughing already, what do you think this is, Sienfeld?_

She decides, at that point, that she will do something.

* * *

><p>So instead of avoiding him at break, she plops down next to him and ignores his mouth hanging open full of half-chewed mashed potatoes, and begins to tutor him against his will.<p>

As it turns out, he is surprisingly good with numbers, and calculus becomes another A in Elizabeta's report card.

* * *

><p>Gilbert, bless him, takes to giving her chocolate bars every day for a week before she punches his arm and tells him to stop. "But you like them," he says disbelievingly, and becomes even more incredulous when she tells him he will make her fat.<p>

"So what?" he says. "You'd still be pretty hot."

She is not sure if this is a compliment. She thanks him anyway.

* * *

><p>Francis hands her a stack of rumpled papers torn out of an exercise book. "He tried to write you poetry," he says, and dances away to smack Arthur on the bottom, which will lead to a chase around the school. This happens almost every week.<p>

It is not very good poetry. Gilbert had at one point tried to rhyme "hot butt" with "boat hut", which, although Elizabeta is no expert at this sort of thing, is not the most flattering description one can think of when describing one's muse.

He also, however, writes that she is a beautiful garden and he is only a little bug. Elizabeta decides that she will keep these immediately.

* * *

><p>It is not, then, altogether surprising that she starts hanging out with him outside of tutor time. Gilbert is a lazy, narcissistic, annoying little prick, but he is also hilarious and has three of the world's cutest dogs and a younger brother who is more of a grown-up than either of them. He is also fiercely loyal, and rash, and Elizabeta ends up promising Ludwig that she will take care of Gilbert when Ludwig himself is not around. She finds, to her complete and utter bewilderment, that she doesn't mind this task as much as she should.<p>

He still sneaks chocolate bars into her bag from time to time. She repays him by buying him flowers, and teaching him that the correct way to present them to someone is by removing the dirt first and wrapping them in ribbon after.

A kiss, although optional, is preferred.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, everyone! First of all, I am so sorry for the unexpected hiatus. As you know, studies are hectic, and the internet here is pretty abysmal (I've almost run out of data on my phone...it's only been a week)<br>**

**And now for the shameless self-promotion part: I understand many of you were readers of my previous (and longest) Hetalia fic, Angels, Demons, Asians and Zombies. **

**Well, good news, guys, I haven't been completely useless in my long absence because the sequel to ADAZ has finally been plotted out! I'll be putting up the first bit this weekend, although updates might be a bit slow as I'll be having exams in a few months so please bear with me HAEUHEUHEUAHAEUHEA. **

**See you in Angels, Demons, Asians and Vampires, featuring a whole new cast (and some old faces), new threats, new calamity and new fun!**


	22. The Football Team

**In this one:  
><strong>

**Characters: Alfred, Ivan, Arthur, Ludwig, Francis, Mattie (cameo)  
>Universe: High School AU<br>Genre: CAPSLOCK**

* * *

><p>Now, it's absolutely true that Alfred F. Jones was a bit of a nutjob (but if THAT'S WHAT YOU NEED TO BE A GOOD QUARTERBACK, SO BE IT) and that he'd taken several blows to the head in his time, but Alfred was nothing if not an opportunist, and he knew talent when he saw it.<p>

That's why, when he noticed a six and a half foot figure wading through the throng to break up the customary English-French after class fistfight only to pick both boys up bodily and set them apart with a gentle warning to _play nice, yes?_, Alfred had paid special attention. Admittedly, the initial cause for this undivided attention had, in fact, been because a six and a half foot man was a generally uncommon occurrence, but after the shock of seeing what seemed to be A PROFESSIONAL MEXICAN WRESTLER on Alfred's high school campus had worn off, Alfred had decided that there was to be a new addition to the football team, no questions asked. And so, after all the fuss had worn off, while both Arthur and Francis were still seething from embarrassment and unlikely to try to convince him to give them his lunch money, Alfred had made his way over to the new boy to tell him the good news.

"YOU WITH THE SCARF!" he'd pointed, probably alarming his new friend greatly in the process (but he couldn't be held accountable for that, Alfred was never good at TALKING AT NORMAL DECIBELS) and promptly, being the nice guy he was, told him that he had officially been accepted as a part of the high school football team and was required to show up for their weekly meeting the following Thursday at four o'clock, if that was alright, and we'll see about getting you gear that'll fit your giant shoulders. The stranger turned out to be, upon closer inspection, built along the same lines as a bear, but significantly blonder and marginally better looking. And this kid, whose name Alfred later found out was Ivan, only laughed at him (IN A WAY THAT WAS NOT ATTRACTIVE WHATSOEVER, I SAY), and left, leaving a very bewildered quarterback to the mercy of their resident delinquents.

In the end, Ivan hadn't shown up for their weekly meeting, which had pissed Alfred off no end, because HOW THE HELL WAS HE SUPPOSED TO RUN A TEAM WHEN HALF THE MEMBERS NEVER EVEN SHOWED UP, DAMMIT, never mind the fact that Ivan hadn't actually said yes. Alfred figured he was almost as bad as that Ludwig fellow- no, Ludwig wasn't _that_ bad, he did show up that one time and shouted at everyone to keep the noise down while the other ECAs were going on before running off again to nag the rest of the student council. Even Arthur showed up once or twice despite Alfred's misgivings about his size, but had proved his worth by getting into a fight and beating his defence into a bloody pulp and then leaving to go smash mailboxes with his friends (giving Alfred another chance to be proud that they had such a talented member) although Alfred never _quite_ got the chance to sit down with him and explain that brass knuckles were not allowed in a football, on account of all the internal haemorrhaging and whatnot. But that was beside the point.

So, the next time Alfred saw Ivan, he made it a point to give him a right talking to for not abiding by the club rules after he had EXPLICITLY TOLD HIM FOUR O'CLOCK, which, of course, led to Alfred laughed at by the illustrious Ivan himself, demanding to know how and why Alfred had mistakenly decided that they were on friendly terms. To which Alfred had responded by pointing a finger about two inches away from Ivan's nose and telling him that it was EXTREMELY RUDE to keep your captain waiting, at your very first meeting, no less! After which he had received what may or may not have been an iron pipe to the eye, which TOTALLY DID NOT MAKE HIM SCREAM LIKE A LITTLE GIRL, NO MATTER WHAT MATTIE TOLD YOU.

But Alfred was tenacious, if not very bright, and he didn't stop badgering Ivan every chance he got. So, it was probably inevitable that Ivan finally showed up one day in the boys' locker room after one meeting to set things straight and get the Jones boy off his back. Figuratively, of course.

It had started off as a heated debate about Ivan's lack of teamwork, oh yes, but, predictably, degenerated into an all-out battle. Even Alfred saw that coming. What surprised him, though, was how exactly the spar managed to morph into a hasty make-out session, with Alfred attempting in vain to swat away Ivan's wandering hands (not that he really minded), and Ivan laughing that tinkling laugh the entire time (which honestly did get a little creepy after some time, you know, especially since it really didn't stop). And what made things worse, goddammit, was that Ivan had FUCKEN DISAPPEARED after that, leaving Alfred more than a little disheveled, until he was chased off by a very suspicious-looking Ludwig who totally did not seem to care that Alfred was in a FUCKEN PREDICAMENT, FOR PETE'S SAKE.

Honestly, the insensitivity of some people.

Well, Alfred had tried to confront Ivan about it, he honestly had, the next Thursday Ivan showed up in the locker room, but he'd just ended up getting groped again (and mind you, UNWILLINGLY SO). And although Alfred never gave up, even he knew when something was just not going to work, and had given up all hope of trying to reason with Ivan after the fifth consecutive week of retreating off the showers after a meeting and suddenly finding a hand down his pants. Besides, once he'd gotten used to the initial shock, it really hadn't been all that bad (at least until Ludwig showed up and Ivan would disappear and leave him, quite literally, hanging). One could even look upon it as a new method of training, although training for what I do not know. But running away from an infuriated student council president ("desecrating school property with your acts of FILTH, THIS GOES AGAINST EVERYTHING IN THE RULEBOOK") sure was doing wonders for his cardio.

And well, at least Ivan was showing up for meetings now, even if he was always late.

* * *

><p><strong>Finals start in two weeks and here I am recycling stupid fanfiction because I've only just realised that it's been months since I've shown my ugly mug back on FF.<br>**

**Exams are hell. Food is bad. Mobile data running out. Send help.**

**That being said, profuse apologies for the long absence! Work is really piling up here, gosh. **

**A slight deviation from the usual style, because why the hell not am I right? Life's too short not to put capital letters in brackets. **

**...it's not plagiarism if it's my own stuff, right? **

**As always, reviews are much appreciated! Thanks for reading!**


	23. WoW!

**In this one:**

**Characters: Alfred, Kiku, Arthur**  
><strong>Universe: Human AU<strong>  
><strong>Genre: Fluff<strong>

* * *

><p>Today was the day.<p>

Arthur probably wouldn't approve of Alfred having found his first love while playing World of Warcraft. But then again, Arthur didn't approve of a lot of the things that Alfred did. Arthur was traditional by nature, and Al, well, he was a modern kinda guy. A modern, fast-paced, fast-food kinda guy. And he really had fallen in love from someone he met on an online RPG.

Kiku. Nice guy, all the way from across the world. Well, not really. He had been from Japan originally, but now he lived somewhere in New York and Alfred thought they'd be able to meet pretty easily when the time came. Which probably wouldn't be for a while yet, because Kiku was pretty shy.

Pay attention now, Alfred. He logged onto his messenger. He'd met Kiku when he'd still been a novice getting killed within five minutes of play. Kiku was amazing. He'd shown up out of nowhere and taken Alfred under his wing, teaching him new, exciting things that made Alfred level up in no time. Alfred had emailed him and Kiku had responded and they'd bonded over their mutual love for games and movies, and friendship was quick to bloom.

Arthur thought Alfred was addicted to the game. Alfred was really only going online to see Kiku.

They were real close. Kiku was shy and reserved and Alfred thought that maybe he didn't deserve to be around such a dignified person. But then again Kiku had confided in him once that Alfred was a nice guy to talk to, because he was bright and lively and made Kiku smile alone in his bedroom.

Alfred took a deep breath. Kiku was online. He said hello.

**Dyslexic Zobmeys** says: Hey (:  
><strong>Honda<strong> says: Hello, Alfred.

Alfred smiled a little like a schoolboy (which is ridiculous, because he's very nearly eighteen and Kiku's already in college and Alfred needs to be mature to make a good, lasting impression). And they'd been talking for months, now. Alfred felt as though he'd told Kiku more about himself than even his parents knew. Kiku, meanwhile told Alfred about his crazy roommates and his part-time job at some Chinese restaurant.

**Dyslexic Zobmeys** says: Hey, I was wondering.  
><strong>Honda <strong>says: ?

Alfred paused.

**Dyslexic Zobmeys** says: You think maybe it's about time we exchanged pics or something?  
><strong>Dyslexic Zobmeys<strong> says: Only if you want to (:

He waited.

Alfred knew a lot about Kiku. He knew that Kiku's favourite colour was navy blue, and that Kiku liked green tea. He knew Kiku liked horror movies that weren't really all that scary. He knew of Kiku's allergy to overly-fluffy cats and how he always managed to get caught in the rain without an umbrella.

**Honda** is sending you a file.  
><strong>Honda<strong> is waiting for you to accept.  
><strong>Transferring…<br>Transfer complete.**

Alfred opened the file with shaky hands. Kiku looked pretty normal. He wasn't breathtakingly beautiful. His face was nice, unmarked like a china-doll's. Dark, deep eyes that spoke of wisdom and a little smile that spoke of youth. A few scars (chickenpox when Kiku was nine) and lips pale and thin. (flawed, but perfect as far as Alfred was concerned).

Alfred found himself wanting to say what he'd been thinking about Kiku for a very long time.

**Dyslexic Zobmeys** says: Wow.

Well. He'd never really been good with words, because words were Arthur's job. Alfred couldn't keep his feelings to himself, either. He wasn't tactful like Matthew. He'd feel himself fill to the brim with emotion and then he'd just blurt it out, shout it from the rooftops to let the world know what he was feeling.

This time, the world consisted of Kiku.

Alfred sighed.

**Dyslexic Zobmeys** says: You're really pretty, you know.  
><strong>Dyslexic Zobmeys <strong>says: And cool and stuff.  
><strong>Dyslexic Zobmeys<strong> says: Oh, and, don't take this the wrong way but I think I kind of like you.  
><strong>Dyslexic Zobmeys<strong> says: Like, LIKE you like you.

He'd hit enter before he'd had a chance to really think about what he was saying. That had been stupid. Kiku was reserved and probably wouldn't like that sort of blatant confession. Alfred sighed again. He'd really put his foot in his mouth that time.

After a short eternity, Kiku finally responded.

**Honda** says: I need a picture of you so I can say how pretty _you_ are, Alfred ^^

"Well fuck me," Alfred said out loud (and earned a stern "oi" from Arthur, who was sitting in the living room).

That had been a close call. For a second Alfred was worried that he'd managed to lose himself a friend. Kiku, instead of thinking him a creeper like he should have, only wanted to see Alfred's face too.

Then, he thought about it. How could he send Kiku, lovely lovely Kiku, a picture of Alfred F. Jones? Just a teenager, slightly chubby, with thick glasses that had broken frames taped together in the middle. Kiku wouldn't be interested.

**Dyslexic Zobmeys** says: oh my god oh my gOD NOW IDK IF I SHOULD SEND ONE OF ME HAHA  
><strong>Dyslexic Zobmeys<strong> says: I don't look good aT ALL.**  
>Honda<strong> says: Alfred?  
><strong>Honda<strong> says: Come on, I shared my face with you ^^  
><strong>Honda <strong>says: Your turn.

Alfred hesitated.

**Honda **says: Please?  
><strong>Honda <strong>says: I need a face to match the person I'm going to visit one day.

It took a moment, but Alfred eventually, wordlessly, managed to dig up some old photo from Facebook (the best one he had, taken by Francis during the family trip to Africa, that had been fun). If Kiku, of all people, wanted Alfred, well then miracles really did exist. Alfred didn't want to get his hopes up. But still, he supposed it was worth a shot. Worst-case scenario, Kiku thought he was sorta dumpy-looking and didn't want to go out with him. Best-case scenario, he'd manage to get a lover along with a brand-new best friend.

He clicked send. And waited.

* * *

><p><strong>My first paper is on Wednesday what do I do<br>**


	24. Red

**In this one:**

**Characters: Russia / The Soviet Union**  
><strong>Universe: Canon<strong>  
><strong>Genre: Historical(ish)<strong>

* * *

><p>It's the colour he sees when his monarchy is executed. It's the colour of the royal blood that spreads out into an ugly, syrupy puddle and taints the snow and seeps into the soles of his shoes.<p>

It's the colour of victory. Of the battered many who refuse to be enslaved by the will of the few. It's the colour that America frowns upon, the colour that makes King George the Fifth nervous from all the way across the channel. It's the colour on his flag, the flag that binds his people together under the hammer and sickle of toil and honest work. It's the colour of the sunset as he watches the horizon knowing that he will be bigger, stronger, better. That his people will be happy and well fed and above all, _safe._

It's the colour of his army. Of the orders of the generals who send millions of men to their death. It's the colour of Germany's flag, too, but it's different from his; the bastardised swastika makes the accursed thing seem dyed in madness and rust, while his own is bright and fiery and much, much cleaner. It's the colour of the blood in France's teeth as he eventually crumbles under the unforgiving weight of a psychopath, and the colour of England's rage, and the colour of America's tie as he finally, against all odds, joins the fray.

* * *

><p>It's the colour he spreads across Europe, taking reparations as he goes (or so he calls them, as he installs himself in Poland even despite what he agreed, and soon the rest of the East follows suit. It's not his fault, he reasons; he's already been invaded twice through the same route. It's only sensible to paint this land the way he likes, since he's given so much, after all). It's also the colour of Prussia's eyes as they follow him warily across the room, bruised and defeated but still willing to fight. Prussia's eyes, to him, are ugly and full of hate. He may, he thinks, remove them later. In the meantime, he finds his favourite marker pen and, very carefully, shades in his map.<p>

(Mao Tse Tung claims victory just next door, and he discovers, to his delight, that this is China's colour too.)

It's the colour of the warning labels on his very first nuclear warhead, and he sneers across the table at America. _Look who has caught up with you,_ he thinks, and he enjoys the way the boy's face goes pale with rage. He takes it a step further and makes it the colour of Laika's collar. He pets her on the head with a grin, and in a moment of generosity allows her to lick his hands. He does the honours, and her tiny space-bound coffin makes history.

It's the colour of hot metal, which he touches just to assure himself that it is real. It is, and it hurts, but he ignores it and takes to hanging around the factories to watch the builders work their magic. He can feel himself growing stronger by the day. His people are hopeful and his leaders are powerful. He directs his smile to the West and hopes America sees.

* * *

><p>It's also the colour, it turns out, of anger. Mobs protest in the streets. Their bellies are empty, but he is helpless, his money goes to his generals, to missiles, to war. Funds flow like water to Cuba and to Vietnam and he has not enough for himself; he is thin and gaunt and starving so he tightens the iron curtain he has used to cut himself off in case America's prosperity makes his people even angrier. He sees his flag begin to wrinkle and dull. Idly, he thinks of China. Their colours, he has just realized, are different after all. His is <em>true<em> communism, based in urban revolution. China's power comes from farmers and peasantry. His lip curls in distaste. The two of them are no longer friends.

He and America, in name at least, are. The envelope almost burns in his hand, but as a last stab at defiance, he makes sure it is in his colour. It's the colour of China's sharp tongue as he laughs at the nation that failed in its quest for world revolution. China's flag burns right through his eyelids.

It's the colour of his wine as he makes nice with the Western powers. He wishes for vodka. He sighs and tries to rebuild. He is unsuccessful.

* * *

><p>He feels it before he hears the news. His body tears apart as the people of his beloved Union rise up against him for the last time. He stumbles in through the doorway of his house and sees his friends and his sisters with packed bags and cold faces. It's the colour of the heart that falls right out of his chest. He reaches out to them and cries. They look away. His sisters, at least, pause to say goodbye. Before he knows it, he is all alone in a big, empty house and his blood rushes in his ears loud enough to make him deaf. He curls in on himself and shudders.<p>

It's not the colour that he sees when they leave.

* * *

><p><strong>Since Hetalia is an historical anime, I figured I'd actually try something, y'know, historical (laughs).<strong>

**Divided into Russia's significant periods- revolution, World War II, expansion over Eastern Europe (during which time he develops nuclear weaponry and communism prevails in China), _détente_ and the Sino-Soviet rift, and the eventual breakdown of the Soviet Union. **

**Please review (I will love you forever) and thanks for reading!**


	25. Romance Is Dead

**In this one:  
><strong>

**Characters: England, France  
>Universe: Canon<br>Genre: Humour/fluff**

* * *

><p>Honestly.<p>

_Honestly._

Stupid France and his stupid idea of romance.

They were nations, by Jove.

They had no need for romance.

Honestly.

The past few centuries had been…well, alright, they'd been bloody and bruising and fairly dark actually, but England had enjoyed himself nonetheless. After all, he was violent once (still was, really). A few wars here and there weren't going to do anything to his feelings. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, the shock and the pain of having hellfire rained on his head had pushed him to finally tell the idiot he rather fancied him, actually, even if he was French. It hadn't required very much effort. After that stiff-lipped confession, he and France had sort of drifted together and stayed that way. About time, too, after almost a thousand years of being practically attached at the hip. It felt right.

He'd made the mistake of actually saying that out loud, once. He hadn't meant it to be sweet. It was a statement of fact. They were France and England; born together, raised together, perpetually at war with each other until it really mattered. They belonged with each other. Nobody _else_ deserved them, anyway.

Well.

France had melted into the table and called him a dear and the sex after that had been fantastic, but now the idiot _wouldn't shut up_ about how much he wanted poems and love songs and roses and wine and romantic cruises under moonlit skies.

He was _England_, damn it all. He didn't _do_ romance.

Honestly.

"Didn't you used to have that Shakespeare guy? Heard he was like the ultimate songwriter or whatever," America had asked at one point before running off to force another burger on Japan. That had made England stop and sigh. Yes, he'd had the Bard. Yes, the man's sonnets had been immortalised the world over. What America didn't know was that if anyone had actually bothered to _read_ the damned things properly, they'd notice that out of thirty-nine plays in total, about thirty-two of them consisted of dick jokes and fighting.

He didn't think France would be quite naive enough to fall for that anyway.

Honestly. They were _nations,_ not silly humans. There was absolutely no reason to go about spouting nonsense at each other about romance or seduction or any of that. They were far too old to still be driven giddy by the waves of love. They'd seen enough hardship to have their rough edges worn out, yes, but they'd had all their softness rubbed raw too, and most of them were dense and patient and stoic. Yes, he loved France, but there was no need to be unreasonable about it. They would live far too long to feel the need to hold on to each other with their last dying breath. In all likelihood they'd be stuck with each other for the rest of eternity, so there was really no point, England felt, in making such a fuss.

He hadn't tried to seriously injure France in almost eighty years. What more romance could a man possibly need?

Honestly.

He'd been wilting at him. _Wilting_. With those obnoxiously blue eyes and that silky hair and that bloody goatee. Having every other minute punctuated with a forlorn sigh whenever they saw each other was really starting to grate on England's nerves.

"Stop wheezing at me, you bloody pillock."

France had only sighed harder.

This ridiculous sentimentalism didn't much impact their sex life, thank the gods. England wasn't sure he'd have been able to survive all these years if he'd been deprived of a good shag now and again.

But still.

_Honestly._

He was particularly good at roses, England was. English roses, pretty and pink in full bloom. Normally he guarded them with the tenacity of a particularly testy dragon but this time, he thought he might be able to make an exception. If it would make France man the hell up. Greater good, and all that.

So he cut them. A precious few, heart breaking just a bit with every felled stalk even though he made sure to choose some of the ones getting on in age. He briefly thought about leaving all the thorns on, but then he'd probably never hear the end of it, so off they went. Chocolate was customary too, or so he'd heard. If he was going to make a fool of himself he might as well go the full monty.

If France wanted a stupid, farcical romance, then England would jolly well give it to him.

The last few quid in his pocket went to buying a ticket. Roses in fist and heart shaped box of chocolates in the crook of his arm, he got on the Eurostar. He must have looked a right sight with a scowl on his face and a handful of slightly elderly flowers, but if this is what it took, then so be it.

France opened the door in an apron. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Here's your bloody romance, ponce."

"What-"

In hindsight, England had seen enough couples to know that a man didn't typically deliver affections by smacking his lover in the face with a box of melting chocolate and dozen wilting plants that may or may not have been properly de-thorned. Still, he supposed it was better than nothing.

France drew back to see the bouquet properly. "What brought this on?"

"You _said_ you wanted romance, you great sodding git. There it is. Twelve innocent flowers murdered so you can put them in your living room for a week and sigh at them while you draw hearts in your diary."

France considered this. "I'm not a girl."

"Men eat chocolate too."

"...I don't know if I want to eat these if they've been in contact with _you_ for any longer than five minutes."

England gave up.

They had, in the end, gone to bed after staring at each other for about ten minutes because England hadn't actually planned much beyond showing up at France's door with gifts. Really, what _else_ were they supposed to do? He'd been right, after all. About the romance. It was silly. Privately, England vowed never to lower himself to this level again. Altogether too troublesome, and his heart still stung from culling his poor roses. The only thing stopping him from getting royally miffed was that the gesture was not altogether unappreciated by France, who only punched him in the stomach a little bit when he decided to grope his arse in the middle of making dinner.

England chalked this up to a win. They were nations after all. Their dysfunctional brand of love didn't need the extra frivolity.

Romance.

_Honestly._

* * *

><p><strong>Hello my kawaii gangstas<br>**

**I just wanted to say that we're reaching 150 reviews and thank you all so much for reading and commenting! As was the case in ADAZ, the 150th review wins a prompt! Suggest something and I'll dedicate it to you in the next chapter of Shorts! **

**My holidays have started and two years of pre-uni are now over. Next step is real uni!**

**I hope my senpais will notice me this year.  
><strong>


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